


Maybe It's Not Too Late

by GinAndShatteredDreams



Series: Maybe It's Not Too Late [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, Blood, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Hallucinations, Homoromantic, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Violence, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Verbal Abuse, asexual Fiddleford, asexual ford, fiddauthor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-07-10 07:31:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 82,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6973243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GinAndShatteredDreams/pseuds/GinAndShatteredDreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Overall:  A post-weirdmageddon asexual Fiddauthor fic in which revelations occur, a confession goes awry, some unfinished business reemerges in the form of a raging pterodactyl, and chaos ensues.  (vaguely romantic - hugs/hand holding/cuddling/comfort, no kisses - just adding that so I don't disappoint anyone who's hoping for it - or maybe for the sake of people (like me) who sometimes like to read something without ;))<br/>(Edit - No romantic kisses.  There's a forehead kiss between family members at one point.)<br/>*It would probably be good to mention that most of this was written before the journal came out and even after, I tried to keep true to the ideas formed before reading it with one exception that is noted later.   </p><p>Chapter:  Mabel helps Ford clear up some misconceptions about himself but the revelations drag up old feelings he thought he’d made peace with decades ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Faded Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: I have no delusions. This is purely me dumping a bunch of my own feelings onto some fictional characters. But hey, that’s what writing in is for, right? (OK, so it serves other purposes but for now, this is the one it shall serve… With a side of fluff and a large glass of tears.)
> 
> Disclaimer: This by no means reflects the feelings, emotions, or views of all asexuals. Besides the fact that asexuality is a spectrum, everyone is different and holds their own combination of desires, perspectives, and feelings. This is just one of countless combinations of those. 
> 
> Special thanks to usually-confused.tumblr.com for beta reading this for me :)

*June 2013*

The Stan O’ War II was a creaky vessel cobbled together by loving hands.  Stan had conned a dealer into paying _him_ to take a decrepit wooden husk of a fishing trawler off his hands.  Ford then fitted it with the retro futuristic technology he had salvaged from his lab, bunker, and the alien spacecraft buried below Gravity Falls.  A single room above deck served as a kitchen, lounge, and study.  Below was Stan’s cabin, a bathroom, and a storage room which doubled as Ford’s cabin.  Ford had waved away Stan’s idea that they install two bunks in a single cabin claiming that his sleep habits would be bothersome.  From what he’d seen so far, Stan had to admit his brother was right.      

“Sheesh, that’s your fifth page!  Aren’t you done with that yet?” Stan huffed to his twin.  His hands hugged a cup of fresh coffee, the ceramic burning through his callouses as he tried to prevent it from sloshing over with the swell of the sea.  A shivering sound vibrated through his lips as he set his cup on the scraped and dented table.  He tugged his silver hair, now long enough that the tips reached below his neck, out from under the yellow plaid comforter hanging around his shoulders.  He readjusted his cape-like blanket before sitting in the teetering wooden chair across the table from his baggy-eyed twin.  He examined the matching red comforter he’d draped over his brother sometime around 2 am.  It had barely moved.  His ever-present stubble had grown to a fuzzy mess, _“not that I can complain,_ ” he thought as he scratched at his own neglected beard.  He may have been fine with the shaggy seafarer look but his brother had continued his fastidious but reckless pyromaniacal shaving regimen.  

“Sweet Sally don’t you even get up to use the bathroom?” Stan asked, “You’ve been at that all night, haven’t you?” 

“Oh hmm.  That would explain why things have gotten brighter,” Ford joked absentmindedly.    
  
He wasn't wrong in his sarcasm.  Night and day no longer mattered in the nearly constant sun.  It barely dipped under the horizon, barely dimmed the sky.    
  
Stan forced a laugh.  "No really.  You should get some sleep."  
  
"Eventually..."  Ford spoke less to Stan and more to the sketch he was adding to his journal.  He tapped his chin with his pencil, staring at his drawing of the three sirens they’d encountered yesterday as if he was looking right through it.  He glanced up at an essay about siren mythology displayed on the laptop they shared, then back down at his journal.  “There’s one thing I forgot to ask them that’s bugging me and it was so obvious!  How stupid could I be?”  

“Hey don’t beat yourself up over it, maybe we’ll meet them again.”  Stan rested his elbows on the table and slurped his coffee.  He lifted an eyebrow as his brother nibbled at his already mauled pencil and said, “Take it easy there, poindexter.  That pencil never did nothin to hurt you.”

He looked up with a wide-eyed expression, his teeth still clenched around the pencil.  Stan couldn’t help thinking he looked dorkier than usual but it warmed his heart seeing him like that, so engrossed in his passion for the supernatural again.  He hadn’t quite been himself since the end of Weirdmageddon.  Or maybe he was being exactly like himself.  Stan wasn’t sure anymore.  As usual, Ford held no regard for his own well-being.  As usual, he rarely elaborated on anything about his life or experiences.  As usual, he’d thrown himself wholeheartedly into one of his obsessions, only this time, his obsession was Stan’s health and happiness.    

While Stan enjoyed the company of his brother, it didn’t feel right that Ford was constantly doting over him.  He was always making him a fresh cup of coffee (this was the first morning in months that he’d made his own), offering him a cigar (expensive imports, where was he getting the money for them anyway?) and pretending the smoke didn’t bother him, or following him around like a bodyguard whenever they docked (it’s tough to pick up a date when your protective, trigger-happy brother is hovering nearby with at least three blasters, banned in multiple dimensions, strapped under his coat).  

Ford listened to Stan’s stories from his years running the Mystery Shack and had grown adept at detecting when one of his jokes stemmed from the return of a not so pleasant memory.  He was always ready for the next sleepless night, offering comfort and compassion as Stan remembered freezing winters spent shivering in his car, his stomach achingly empty, and endless days behind bars in a foreign cell.  While Ford’s responses came with the empathy of experience, he artfully dodged any and all of Stan’s questions about his half of the tale of two Stans.  

The only thing Stan managed to learn was by pure accident.  Before they set sail, he brought one last box of provisions to the storage room.  He stood on a wooden crate to stack and strap it in place but when he  stepped down, he stumbled backwards into a stack of Ford’s books.  In a rumbling literary landslide they crashed against the wooden floor, flipping open to random pages.  From an aged leather volume, a folded and discolored paper with frayed edges and curled corners fluttered to the ground.  When he picked it up, curiosity got the better of him and he unfolded it.  His heart nearly stopped.  He had no idea what the alien letters meant but it was clearly a wanted poster for his twin.  When confronted, Ford joked that he was wanted dead or alive in more dimensions than he could count then promptly changed the subject.  After a while, Stan stopped asking any questions at all, figuring he’d talk when he was ready.  

Ford’s current frustrations snapped Stan out of his thoughts as he slammed his pencil down.  It rolled off the table when his hands lifted, six fingers spread in a desperately quizzical gesture as he asked, “Why didn’t it work on me?”

“Oh you mean the sirens’ song or whatever you call it?”

“Yes!  In theory, it should work on any human.”  

“There’s yer answer.”  Stan lifted one finger from his cup to point at his twin, making a clicking sound with his tongue.  “I told you a long time ago that you’re a robot.  Beep boop.”

“Ha ha.  Very fun-”

An electronic bloop from the laptop interrupted Ford as though the sound burst forth from his lips, sending Stan into a laughing fit.  

The elder twin glared over his glasses at him.  “Are you quite done yet?  Or should I tell the kids to call back another time?”

He heaved a sigh, trying to stop his laughter.  “No no, ‘s fine.”

Ford answered the call, turned the laptop to face Stan, and shifted his chair closer to him, gathering his comforter around himself.  

“Arctic summers aren’t exactly sandy beaches and palm trees are they?”  Dipper asked in a jovial tone.

“Ha ha, you look like blanket turtles!”  Mabel pointed and laughed.  

“Yeah yeah, nice to see you boogers too,” Stan joked.

Mabel and Dipper lamented missing out on a summer in Gravity Falls but their parents insisted summer camp would be better for them after the elder twins had tried to explain at least part of the truth to them.  While the flabbergasted parents seemed happy to have the real Stanford back and to know Stanley was alive after all, they thought the two were out of their minds when they spoke of a portal to another dimension.  Neither set of twins dared to mention Bill or the events of Weirdmageddon after that.  All the elder twins could hope was that the kids’ plea to join them over winter break would be granted.  If not, they planned on dropping in on the family in Piedmont.  One way or another, they were going to spend time with the kids they were willing to sacrifice everything for.  But perhaps it was a good idea to give their parents a bit of time to cool down after finding out their kids were being looked after by an ex-convict conman and an interdimensional outlaw for the summer.  

Mabel continued filling her grunkles in on camp activities and the friends they’d made for a good ten minutes.  The senior twins listened intently, grinning at her optimistic spin on a disappointing situation.  When Dipper’s turn came, he asked a million questions about their travels, as expected.    
  
Stan told him the tale of how Ford saved him from jumping overboard to answer the call of the sirens.  His hands mimed in over exaggerated gestures as he raved about how Ford managed to drape a fishing net over him at the last second and tied the ends to the nearest cleat.  The sirens had been furious at first, shouting empty threats of dragging their souls to the underworld until Ford began speaking with them.  He barely breathed between his questions, the curious lift to his eyebrows and gentle tone of his voice eliciting a chuckle from the trio.  Perhaps they thought he was charming but more likely their own curiosity got the better of them.  Either way, they called a truce and granted him an interview.  

“So, why didn’t their song affect you, Great Uncle Ford?” Dipper asked.

“Poindexter here forgot to ask them,” Stan snorted, pointing his thumb at his brother.

“It was so obvious!”  Ford gave his fist a melodramatic shake.  “It should have been one of my first questions!”

“At first I thought it might’ve meant my nerdy bro was into guys,” Stan said nonchalantly.  

“Yes well, I never knew there was a such thing as a male siren,” Ford said, resting his chin on his intertwined fingers, “Rather interesting really.”

Mabel sputtered out a laugh.  “They had to call for backup because of you!  That’s hilarious!”

Stan clicked his tongue.  “Yeah double whammy…  Yeesh.   _That_ was an experience.  I about gnawed my way outta that net…”  he mumbled and drained the remainder of his coffee down his throat.  “Imma get more coffee.  You want some ‘a your tea or something?”

“Yes please,” Ford would have gotten up to make both Stan’s coffee and his tea but the lack of sleep suddenly hit him like a sucker punch to the gut.  His eyelids sagged and his mind felt foggy.  

Mabel pursed her lips, her fingers steepled below her chin as she considered her great uncle’s conundrum.  “Oh!” she yelled, nearly pushing Dipper off screen with a fire burning in her eyes as though she’d figured out the answer to one of life’s greatest questions.  “I know I know!  It didn’t work on you because you’re asexual!”

“Ha ha, what do you mean by that?” he asked, thinking of the single celled organisms he’d studied back in the 70’s.

“She’s probably right, Ford,” Stan added, filling the kettle.  “It would explain a lot.”  

“Wait, what does that even mean?”  Ford turned his head back and forth, glancing between Mabel’s image on the screen and his brother, standing at the counter behind him.  

Mabel pried further, “Ok um, have you ever actually been attracted to anyone?  Like you know…   _attracted_?” she hinted.

Through blushing cheeks he attempted an answer, not sure he should be discussing something like this with his barely teen aged niece.  Still, she seemed to somehow know more about the topic than he did.  “Well, yes, of course-,” he began, the answer pouring out with little thought and no external emotion, but inwardly, it jabbed at his heart.  He knew it felt off, like a well rehearsed act or a counterfeit recorded message played back for the thousandth time.  It was the answer he always used, never considering anything different.   _“You must have a crush on someone.”_  He’d pick some celebrity just to stop the incessant nagging.   _“What’s your fantasy?”_  He’d always imagined discovering something incredible which would benefit humanity.   _“Have you ever had a dream about your crush?”_  How could he if he didn’t have one?  

Except somehow he did.  He’d dreamed of deeply fulfilling conversations with someone he’d never met in his waking life.  He’d dreamed of warm arms wrapped around him as the conversation shifted from Bosonic string theory to that episode of the Dick Van Dyke show with the alien walnuts.  The unknown person leaned against him as they created new characters for Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons, and shared their childhood memories with one another.  He remembered the pang that shook his limbs when he awoke to discover it hadn’t been real.

The kettle whistled and his great niece and nephew awaited his final answer but he honestly wasn’t sure.  What was attraction anyway?  A blanket term for something more complex, a set of different types of attraction?  While he had tried to speak to some of the girls in his classes when he was younger, he couldn’t honestly say he was _attracted_ to them, at least, not as intensely as what his brother described of his attractions to certain people; not as desperately as characters in movies and books portrayed it.  He considered what he’d always thought of as people’s lewd comments and realized that what he thought was an exaggeration, some sort of oversexualized joke most of humanity played along with, was what a good majority of people _actually_ felt.  It was something he, himself, had never experienced.  

He realized that for his entire life, he’d apparently mistaken being attracted to someone for their personality or thinking someone was aesthetically pleasing for some generalized form of attraction.  And when it came right down to it, he’d never even thought much about what the next step after going out for dinner might be.  He would have been happy with a lifetime of simply enjoying each other’s company.  What did other people expect?  A kiss?  A second date?  Dating until marriage?  A one night stand?  Three dates then…  ugh.  He hated those scenes in movies (he’d always been teased that he was just bitter but some part of him knew they simply made him feel uncomfortable).  And come to think of it, he never could understand cheating.  Why was the urge so intense that people would risk ruining their lives and hurting someone else so deeply?  Why couldn’t they just…  not?    

But of course he hadn’t thought much on those topics before.  No attempt at a relationship had so much as garnered him a first date, how could he even consider things that far ahead?  After one too many rejections, he’d given up and thrown himself into his studies and art.  He made sure he didn’t have time to think about it anymore, built walls to keep himself safe from himself.  

With a shake of his head, he looked up at the kid’s images on the screen and corrected his answer, “No.  I suppose not.”

“Well there you have it,” Mabel said with a compassionate smile.  

“What, exactly?” Ford shrugged, still unclear on precisely what epiphany his great niece was trying to lead him to.  

“I’ll send you some links.  That’ll probably help the most.”  

And she did.  She sent him link after link to articles, blogs, and personal experiences.  Stan refilled his tea countless times as he read every one of them.  He found that many of the stories and thoughts resonated with him and it felt as if a decades old cloud of smog cleared from his mind.  Yet at the same time, a new misery crept in.  In his sixties, he was having to rediscover himself all over again.  For every misconception about himself that the links cleared up, it clouded over something else and unearthed long buried emotions.  

There were others like him.  The idea was exciting and maddening.  He wished he’d known sooner.  He wished he could have saved himself the rejections from people who sensed he wasn’t interested in them the way they were interested in others. He could have saved himself the misery of wondering what was wrong with him; thinking he must be completely worthless and undesirable because he wasn’t attracted to anyone enough to try harder or because he had no idea how flirting even worked.  He might not have felt like the loser of the century when he left collage without so much as a single kiss, lying to others to hide what they would surely humiliate him for.  He was already teased enough for his anomalous hands and nerdy nature, he didn’t need the added torment that came with failing to meet expected milestones.  But those were never his standards!  They were the standards of a society who valued people based on if they were sleeping with someone or not.  He wondered if he had known, if things might have been different, if he could have valued himself more despite the opinions of others.  

If he had known that he wasn’t alone, maybe he could have searched for the right person.  Maybe he could have found the one from his dream, the one to share life with in a partnership of platonic love and respect, helping each other through their difficulties.  Heck, it didn’t even have to be a woman!  He suddenly realized he honestly never cared about gender or gender identity, just compatibility.  In fact, the more the dreams from his youth resurfaced, the more he realized the person in them was of indeterminate gender.  Again, it was only outside influences pressuring him, making him feel like a failure if he didn’t meet certain criteria.  Maybe if he had known, he wouldn’t have felt the need to pursue college in the first place to validate his existence.  Maybe he would have sailed away with Stan, content to watch him search for his beaches and babes.  

But he never knew.  No one knew back then.  For the first time in his life, he was learning what he was and that it was valid.  He’d hated feeling like a lonely “special snowflake”, as some of the troll comments on the articles put it.  (Though he laughed at the absurdity of someone thinking people who were actively looking for others like themselves, struggling to feel more like they fit in somewhere, were somehow trying to be oh-so-unique.)  

Over the next six months, Stan noticed a change in his twin and he wasn’t sure what to think of it.  While he continued filling pages in his journal with information about the anomalies they encountered and acting like a mother worried over her sick child to Stan, something was off.  While staying up late into the night was normal for him, remaining in his cabin until well into the day was not.  Stan could accept it if he was locking himself away to read or work in peace but the darkness under his door indicated he was not.  He would have been happy if he was sleeping as he claimed to be but the darkening circles under his eyes told another tale.  He only ate when Stan ate.  He spoke less than usual and his laughter was forced and dry.  Yet some days were good.  Some days he left his cabin early and seemed genuinely happier than ever.  But one major thing remained the same.  He still sidestepped questions about himself even when it came to the new found portion of his identity.      


	2. It's Just a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During a winter reunion in Gravity Falls, Soos and the kids visited McGucket manor for anime Sunday. Dipper finally found out the password to Fiddleford’s computer and Mabel dove headfirst into matchmaker mode. Ford’s suspiciously quiet afternoon in the Mystery Shack was about to get interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: I have no delusions. This is purely me dumping a bunch of my own feelings onto some fictional characters. But hey, that’s what writing in is for, right? (OK, so it serves other purposes but for now, this is the one it shall serve… With a side of fluff and a large glass of tears.)
> 
> Disclaimer: This by no means reflects the feelings, emotions, or views of all asexuals. Besides the fact that asexuality is a spectrum, everyone is different and holds their own combination of desires, perspectives, and feelings. This is just one of countless combinations of those. 
> 
> Special thanks to usually-confused.tumblr.com for bouncing ideas around with me and for the computer imagery ideas!

*December 2013*

Tuesday afternoons were always quiet around the Mystery Shack.  Well, as quiet as things could be in Gravity Falls.  Ford knew very well that the Gnomes still scampered outside, leaving trails of tiny hand and foot prints in the snow.  The growl of a gremlobin occasionally snaked around the towering trees within the forest.  Sometimes the manotaurs even stopped by to see if Mabel had made them any new sweaters yet.

Soos, after his first year of running the Mystery Shack, began joking that _“anthyding can hadplen.”_  He’d even linked Ford to his blog so he could read the embellished tales he called fanfictions.  Though they were regularly exaggerated, even by Gravity Falls weirdness standards, Ford often read them aloud to his twin on the frigid nights aboard the Stan ‘O War II and Stan would reminisce about his time running the Shack.  

 _“Oh yeah!  Ha!  The same thing happened to me about ten years into running the place.  I gotta say, I’m glad your journal warned me about the bad side of the enchanted forest,”_ he’d said, following it up with a shuddering sound to which Ford simply nodded knowingly.  

Soos’s stories not only helped keep Stan’s memories solid in a time when he was still regaining bits and pieces but offered him a solid connection to the people he’d grown to care for.  He’d never admit it but Ford could tell when he was beginning to miss Soos and Wendy.  As for the kids, they chatted so often in text and video that the only things Stan could miss were the wrestling matches, hugs, and sleep piles.  Luckily, the kids’ parents gave in to their pleas to let them visit their grunkles over winter break.  

The first day was filled with hugs and wrestling, comments on how the kids had grown, and a movie marathon which ended in a Pines family sleep pile around Stan’s old chair.  The second day, Stan led tours in Soos’s place And Ford helped Wendy run the gift shop so Soos and the kids could meet their friends at McGucket manor for an extended version of their new Sunday anime tradition.  The third day was spent skating and sledding, rolling in the snow, and drinking hot chocolate at the diner.  

Today had been relaxing so far, boring almost.  The museum and store were closed.  Wendy had the day off.  Despite the snow drifts left over from the previous night’s storm, Abuelita snuck out to follow Soos and Melody on their date at the arcade, promising to fill Ford in on the details later (although he honestly didn’t want to pry into their lives).  The kids had slept in, though by the sound of it, they were finally up and about, murmuring in hushed tones in the hall.  

Alone in the dining room, Ford shivered, wondering if he should exchange his usual khaki coat for something a little thicker.   In the amber glow of the stained glass lamp hanging overhead, he sat at the table looking over his brother’s “additions” to the captain’s log they shared.  After all those years apart, his twin’s puns and random jokes still elicited a smile from deep within him.  They were truly as terrible as his own but he couldn’t resist bubbling over with laughter every time.  

Another chill shook his spine and he considered adding more kindling to the stove in the kitchen.  He would have thought that he’d be a little more resilient to the Oregon winters after spending so many nights in the biting frost of the Arctic Sea.    
  
He closed the book, wondering if the chills were less to do with the weather and more to do with intuition.  Through his years spent on the run from bounty hunters and sharp clawed creatures, he’d learned to study his surroundings carefully whenever his hair stood on end or his chest tightened into an anxious knot.  But he was home.  There was no reason for the sudden pressure on his lungs.  

Then again, the feeling didn’t always mean something negative loomed in the future.  Sometimes it preceded an exciting event, like the day he and Stan encountered a rather cordial walrus who could speak five different languages, one of which was an interdimensional tongue Ford was quite familiar with, or the day they encountered the sirens and he’d discovered a part of himself he never understood until then (and which he still hadn’t fully come to terms with.)

Even so, the former interdimensional outlaw breathed deeply, taking an inventory of everything around him.  No odd sounds, no strange smells, just the creaking of weathered boards and the musty odor of old wallpaper and wood.  He could still hear the kids, safe in the hall.  His mind wandered to his brother, worrying over his safety.  Perhaps he should call him.    

Stan had left about ten minutes ago for a simple trip to the grocery store.  Ford had offered to join him but his brother insisted he’d be fine on his own which, the more he thought about it, the more it seemed out of character for Stan to turn down the company (unless he’d been flirting with someone and wanted a bit of alone time with them.  It took Ford a while but over the past six months, he’d started to get the hint when his brother wanted him to make himself scarce).  He wanted to call him, to reassure himself everything was fine but if he called now, would it sound like he didn’t trust Stan to do something on his own?  He’d been doing well with his memory.  For the past several months, there hadn’t been a single episode of blankness or loss.  But still, if he didn’t call and something did happen, he’d never forgive himself.    

He dug in his pocket and retrieved his phone then spent a good two minutes fidgeting with it, trying to turn the confounded thing on.  He swiped the screen and squinted, searching for the contact list icon.  He scrolled to Stan’s name and tapped the call button.  

Stan answered, his throaty voice rasping happily, “Hey, poindexter, what’s up?  You forget something we need?”

“Oh um, yes,” he lied, happy to hear his brother was safe, “Could you um, pick up some orange juice please?”

“Yeah sure.  No problem.  Anything else?”

“No, that’s everything.  Um, Stan?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful.  The roads are slippery out there.”

“Sure thing.  See you in a bit.”  

He hung up and clutched his phone between both hands.  It hadn’t helped.  Well, it did a little.  At least he knew Stan was alright.  But his chest still felt as though it was locked in a tightening vice.  A knock at the door sent a ripple down his spine.  He shifted in his chair and pocketed his phone, ready to go answer the door when Mabel yelled, “I got it!”          

He stood anyway, reaching for his blaster, worried that whatever was at the door might be malicious.  But when he heard her cheerfully greet someone, “Oh good you’re here just in time!” he relaxed, or rather, tried to relax, back into his chair again.  

He reopened the captain’s log, paying little attention to it as he considered the younger twins’ previous bravery and abilities.  He wondered if he even needed to worry over them.  After all, they could handle things he couldn’t at times.  

“Grunkle Ford!” Mabel’s voice startled him, “Someone’s here to see you!” 

Mabel and Dipper ushered their guest in through the empty TV room.  He glanced up to find Fiddleford following the twins into the amber glow of the dining room.  His cheeks lifted in joy at seeing how much healthier his old friend looked.  The last few months must have treated him well.  He’d gained color back in his cheeks and the cast from his arm had been removed.  He had traded his old overalls for a new pair of brown slacks, an ecru button-down shirt, an orange and red sweater vest (that looked suspiciously like Mabel’s handiwork), and a long brown coat.  Ford snorted a chuckle to himself, amused that he’d kept his long beard and old hat.  He struck an uncanny resemblance to the warrior mage character he’d created during their marathons of Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons back in their college days.  The whimsical look suited him well and reminded Ford of the old friend he’d missed so fiercely over the years, as much as he’d missed Stan, though he had only recently discovered how badly their absence had nagged at the back of his mind.  It was tough to think of much other than survival and finding a way to fix his mistakes for the past thirty years.               

He closed the captain’s log and stood to greet him properly, bothered that the tightness in his chest remained unrelenting.  “Fiddleford!”  He coughed into the crook of his elbow, the only way he could exhale enough to catch a fresh breath.  “Hello there.  Nice to see you again, old friend.”  He extended him a shaky handshake.

A sweatier than usual hand accepted, but pulled away quickly.  “Yeah.  Yup.  S’good to see you too.”

Ford offered him the chair across from him, his heart both sinking and racing at the swiftness of their handshake.  Fiddleford had never been bothered by his six fingers before.  In fact, from the moment they met he’d said it was “pretty nifty”.  But something was definitely bothering him.  The genius hillbilly swung his clunky old laptop up onto the table and climbed onto the chair sitting cross-legged upon it.  Ford tucked his coat beneath his legs and took his seat again, the tenseness in his chest feeling as though it would tear his skin apart.  He noticed Mabel whisper to Fiddleford.  He could barely hear but he figured she must have said something to the tune of, “Go ahead.  Tell him.”

 _Tell me what?_  He wondered.   _Is he still upset with me?  Yes of course, why wouldn’t he be?_  Ford shifted in his chair, stiffening his posture as if bracing himself for a terrible blow.  He watched the twins scurry out of the room but could clearly see their shadows cast in lanky purple silhouettes against the yellow light beyond the hallway door.  

“Um.  I-uh,” Fiddleford stuttered, squirming in his chair as if he’d forgotten how to sit, “I got something I needed ta talk ta you about.”

“Yes?  What is it?” Ford attempted to steady his voice but it squeaked airily on the word “what”.

“We ah, we had some pretty good times together back in the day, didn’t we?”

“Indeed.  Ah I miss the old days sometimes.  Just you and I seeking out anomalies and sometimes running away from them in fear of our lives,” he laughed as he rambled, trying to cover the nervous tremble in his words.  “And goodness but seeing Tate again certainly made it clear how much time has passed.  He was just a toddler the last time I saw him.  That reminds me, I haven’t seen your wife since I returned,” he trailed off uncertain if he should ask how she was doing.  He’d never gotten to know her very well.  She mostly kept her distance from the oddities the two of them encountered.  Besides, he’d always gotten the feeling she didn’t like him very much.   _Who could blame her?  It was my job offer that relocated their family to Gravity Falls.  She never did seem happy after that._

“Oh uh, yeah.  She left me a long time ago,” Fiddleford began, “Kicked me outta the house and told me ta stay away from Tate n’ her forever.  I partly couldnt’a blamed her ‘cause I freaked out and wiped my own mind an’ all that but I also found out she was seein’ someone else long before that.  I think it went back ta when we were livin’ in Palo Alto.”

“Really?  Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“I guess, even though it felt like a betrayal an’ all, well, ta be honest, I couldn’t totally blame her.  I think we only got married cause, back then, that’s what people were supposta do.  Get married an’ have kids, right?”  

“It seemed that was the general consensus,” Ford shrugged, his hands pressing the knees of his pants with wrinkles.  

“Well apparently now they got a word for what I musta always been.  Mabel said it’s called asexual or somethin’ like that?”

“Oh yes,” Ford sighed, somewhat relieved at the direction he suspected their conversation was meant to take.  Fiddleford didn’t hate him!  He wasn’t angry.  Perhaps he just needed someone to talk to.

He pondered what Fiddleford had just said.   _“That’s what people were supposed to do.  Get married and have kids, right?”_  The truth in his words cut through his heart like a serrated knife, hitching and catching as it sliced.  He’d believed it just as much as his old friend had.  For a moment, he wondered if he’d dodged a bullet by never ending up in a relationship.  Would it have turned out the same?  With people hurt and a child involved?  But perhaps it would have been better than creating the device which allowed Bill to enter their world.  Perhaps even a loveless marriage would have been better than thirty years…  

He did think some of the girls in his classes were pretty but thinking back on it, he couldn’t imagine settling down with any of them.  The main reason he thought he should talk to them was because his family and their friends kept asking him when he was going to “bring home a nice girl”.  An aching numbness vibrated through his limbs as he thought of his father’s disappointed scowl when he admitted he was going to senior prom alone.  He remembered his mother’s sadness, wondering if it was empathy as she’d claimed or worry that he was even more abnormal than his extra digits indicated.  Thinking back on it, his parents’ distress was an enormous portion of what bothered him about the situation.  But not all of it.  While part of him did long for a dance partner, part of him would have been happy to stay home and read alone.  Yet, more so, he ached for someone who would return home with him to read or draw or discuss multi-dimensional paradigm theory together.  

It took him more than sixty years and the help of his grand niece to realize that what he’d always wanted was a committed, asexual relationship.  He liked the idea of having someone else’s company, someone to perhaps hug or even cuddle with at times.  Someone who would comfort him in bad times and whom he could comfort in return.  Not that it mattered.  If asking someone out for a typical date never ended in anything but a drink spilled over his head, how was he going to find someone willing to be an asexual partner?  He shook his head, dispelling the overbearing thoughts and focused on the man sitting across from him who stroked his beard with fidgeting fingers.  

Fiddleford was going through revelations similar to his own.  Of course the kids thought they should talk. _Is this why the house is empty?  Did they plan this?_  
  
“Mabel discussed the concept with me too.”  Ford spoke softly, offering a weak smile.  “She figures I must be as well.”

“It’s kinda funny ‘cause I always thought there was, ya know, somethin’ wrong with me.  Guess that’s why I married the first girl that showed any interest.  No wonder she ended up seein’ someone else.  Ha ha, you’d’a been proud’a me though!  When she kicked me out I built me a homicidal pterodactyl-tron ta get my revenge!  Not to toot my own horn, but that th’are was a real piece o’ work!”

“Ha ha yes, I can imagine.  You always did have a knack for building anything from random spare parts.”

“Yeah but ya’know, apparently I went a little off the wall fer a while there.  I may have kinda’ sorta’ married a racoon.”

“What?”  he let out a good-natured laugh.  This was just the sort of thing collage-age Fiddleford would have attempted after running out of coffee during their fourth consecutive all-nighter then brewing up Ford’s entire tea stash with half a pound of Smez dissolved into it.  

“Yeah, she left me too though.”

“Oh, well I’m sorry to hear that.  Um.  I think.”  He tapped his chin, one brow raised in uncertainty.  

“Naw, ‘s no big deal.  We weren’t right fer each other.  She was a little too claw-y bite-y for me.  Truth is, there’s someone else I sorta always liked anyway.”

“Oh?  Another like us perhaps?”  

“Yeah,” he said with a light smile.  

“That-  That’s great!”  Ford honestly wished it to be true.  If Fiddleford could find the sort of relationship he’d longed for, maybe there was hope after all.  Maybe it did exist.  Maybe despite his age and orientation it was still possible.  But his heart sank as he remembered that Fiddleford had always had better luck with people than he ever did.  He had a sort of humor and charm that he’d always admired.  

The feeling of sticky, frigid punch dripping from his hair and down his shirt struck him as if it was happening all over again.  He remembered the one time someone finally did say _“hey, I kind of have a crush on you.”_ Only to follow it up with _“Ha!  I can’t believe he fell for it!  Like anyone has a crush on you, you six fingered freak.”_  No.  Even if Fiddleford found his happiness, he’d already made peace with his own situation once well over forty years ago, even if recent revelations had stirred up old feelings again.    
  
Though the discoveries were helping him view parts of himself in a more positive light, he’d been struggling to quell those old dreams again.  Some nights they were more vivid than the nightmares of Bill.  Some mornings he couldn’t bring himself to leave his cabin after awaking to the reality of his seemingly perpetual loneliness.  Of course he was happy to have Stan back in his life, Stan who was equally as lonely at times but who would return to their tiny ship happy after a night or two away while they docked in various ports.  Being there for each other helped a great deal and was the fire that fueled him some days but others, he could not logic his way through.    
  
Although, recently, he had been getting better at convincing himself things were fine the way they were.  Stan and his happiness were most important now.  After everything his brother did for him, everything he’d sacrificed, he deserved only the best.  Ford clung to that thought like a life raft any time logic failed him and the storm of confused emotions threatened to carry him away.  
  
He would continue to find his happiness in being there for Stan and being happy for Soos and Melody, the kids, and now his old friend.  He’d continue finding it in his books and research.  Besides, traveling with his brother truly had been fulfilling and fun.  Though, he wasn’t sure how much longer they could keep up the strenuous work required to man even a craft as small as theirs.  He pushed the intrusive thoughts aside.  If it came down to staying ashore, he could always bury himself in his art or perhaps write a novel.  

With a steadying breath, he regained his composure, focused back on Fiddleford’s confession, and ventured, “May I ask who it is you like?  The waitress at the diner perhaps?”

“No, she’s still harborin’ a thing for your brother.”

“Oh!  Stanley did mention an uncomfortable date with her…”  Ford chuckled.  

“Stanford, don’t you get it?”  Fiddleford ran his fingers through his snowy beard, fidgeting with it’s tapered end.  

When the only response he received was a tilt of the curious man’s head, he pursed his lips before blurting out “It’s you, you oblivious old owl.”

“Oh ha ha, I get it.  You and the kids are pulling a little prank on me, aren’t you?  That loud man from the prank show they like is going to pop out of the hall any moment, right?”  His cadence was affable, more than he expected he was capable of with his throat tightening around his words and the feeling of a serrated knife sawing at his heart again.

“W-what?  No.  I-I’m serious.  I shoulda told you more’n forty years ago.  Back when we were in college!  Before I got married…  But I didn’t understand it back then.  I…  It’s you.  It was always you.  I love _you_!”

“No you don’t,” he said flatly, his mind and body instantly too numb to process any further thought on the topic.  His legs wobbled as he tried to stand.  He wanted nothing more than to walk away but his feet refused to move.  All he could do was lean on the table with shaking arms.  

“Stanford, I mean it.  Look!”  Fiddleford opened his laptop and turned it to face Ford.  The familiar password blanks glowed green against the black screen exactly as they had more than thirty years ago.  “Remember our running joke?  That you could never figure out my password and I always refused to tell you?  You must have made thousands of guesses.  Everything from Fiddlabs to BUM-alum.”  He swung his legs, launching himself from his chair.  Standing on his toes, he leaned over the laptop, typing out the letters instinctively.  S-T-A-N-F-O-R-D.  The screen flashed and the message “Access granted” appeared.  

Ford shook his head, speechless, denying what he’d seen with his own eyes.  Fiddleford tilted his head, taking in Ford’s blank expression.  It reminded him of the buffering screen that interrupted his anime viewing from time to time.   _“System overload. Rebooting. Please wait.”_

“Stanford, why else do ya think I dropped everythin’ ‘an came here the second you called?  Why else do ya think I went out lookin’ for anomalies with ya anytime ya asked?  We had good times.  I liked those things because you liked them.  Because I wanted to see the way your face would light up when we found something.  The way your glasses slipped down your nose, your smile when you pushed them back up, and the way you’d bury yourself in your drawings… it made me like those things too.  Your enthusiasm was contagious.  And when you started gettin’ friendly with Bill…  I had a bad feeling but I thought I was just bein’ jealous or something and I had no right, I was still married and and…  confused!  So I didn’t say anything.  I didn’t question it because I wanted to support you, because I cared about you, because I believed in what you were tryin’a do just as much as you did.  I wanted us to succeed.  Why else do you think I stayed so long and fell so hard when I finally did have to leave?”

Staring at the laptop with wide, burning eyes, Ford clutched a handful of his hair with one hand, the edge of the table with the other.  He shook his head again.  With a cold chill, his body stiffened and his legs carried him a step back.  His fingers released the table, fidgeting with the elbow patch sewn to his coat sleeve as he backed away.

Fiddleford imagined Ford’s inner reaction as he took a step toward the stunned man.   _“System shutdown. Initiating flight response.”_

Before Ford could comprehend his movements and before Fiddleford could reach out to stop him, he felt his feet pelting against the wooden floor, carrying him to the vending machine in the gift shop.  On complete autopilot, he punched in the access code and slinked behind the hidden door, down the stairs, and into the elevator.  

“Dipper!  Go after him!” Mabel shouted from the hall.  She careened through the TV room and into the dining room sending Waddles into a startled crouch behind Stan’s chair.  

Fiddleford closed his laptop.  His head hung low as he swung it off the table.

“Oh Fiddleford…” she reached out for his arm trying to be of some comfort.  

“Guess I ker-fluffled things pretty good, huh?”

“I’m so sorry…”

“I went and overloaded his CPU agin’,” he said with a half-smile.

“W-what?”  Mabel’s lip lifted in an incredulous expression.  “Wait was this something that happened a lot with him?”

“Well I wouldn’t say a lot.  But it happened sometimes.  He just needs some time to reboot.  Gotta say it took me by surprise the first time it happened in college.  I said his research paper was impressive and he excused himself from our room for a good hour.  It was…  Golly I should have known back then.  That confused look a’ his always did git ta’ me.  Maybe it woulda’ been different if I’d ‘a figured it out before rushing into a wedding.”  
  
“So…  what do we do now?” Mabel asked, realizing that Fiddleford might know far more about her grunkle than she’d managed to learn over the past year and a quarter, even if most of his knowledge was over thirty years old.  For as much as she, Dipper, and Stan had tried to talk to Ford, he had managed to change the topic every time.      
  
“We wait.  I dunno what he’ll say when he gets back…  but I’m guessin’ he’s gotta take some time to let it all process.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I debated a lot on Fiddleford’s reaction at the end and finally decided I liked the idea of him knowing this was a potential response and being understanding of it, that it was part of what he loved/loves about Ford. I may bring it up later that he regrets not giving Ford more time to process things when he left after the portal incident and before he began erasing his mind but that he thought Bill had such a hold over him that there was no going back; that the Ford he knew and loved was gone and there was nothing he could do anymore but get away from a dangerous/hurtful situation.


	3. It's Not Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford flees from an uncomfortable situation. Dipper tries to help and almost makes progress until an earthshaking roar ends their relatively quiet afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This by no means reflects the feelings, emotions, or views of all asexuals. Besides the fact that asexuality is a spectrum, everyone is different and holds their own combination of desires, perspectives, and feelings. This is just one of countless combinations of those. 
> 
> Special thanks to usually-confused.tumblr.com for sparking the conflict ideas.

Ford nearly collided with the back of the elevator wall as he stumbled into the confined space.  He leaned against it for a moment, clutching his chest and gasping for air.  From the gift shop above, he heard Dipper’s muffled voice call out to him, “Grunkle Ford?”  He turned and without even thinking slammed the 3B button.  The basement lab.  His knuckles whitened as he gripped the chain link doors for support, feeling as though his stomach failed to descend with the rest of him.  He released his grip as the elevator rumbled to a stop.  The doors creaked open and he lurched forward into his old lab.    
  
_Why didn’t I stop at the study?  It would have been warmer than this…  No…  too much of him there…  He’s here too but not as strong… Not anymore.  He’s not watching anymore…  He can’t be, right? Is this him?  Is this another way of trying to make me talk…  Of course!  He’s tricking me.  It’s not real.  He’ll revive me again then have one more thing to use against me.  Another person to threaten.  Emotions to throw back in my face…_  
  
His hand reached for the cuff of his sweater.  Holding his breath, he scrunched it halfway up his forearm, his coat sleeve caught in the rolls and wrinkles of the scarlet knit.  He exhaled slowly, slipping into a haze of misery and relief at the sight of withered, reddened flesh encircling his wrist.  His fingers traced the raised, root-like scars and dented furrows between.   _This is real.  This is proof.  He’s gone_.  He tugged his sweater and coat sleeves down once more, wrapping his hand around his wrist holding it close to his chest.   _Its over.  We defeated him.  
_  
He blinked, tethering himself to reality, and glanced around the hollow room.  His desk, chair, and a binder filled with Stan’s copied pages of his third journal, were the only remaining relics of the portal, the ruins of his failed life’s work.  He’d chosen it; poured his heart and soul into the portal and it consumed them gladly, tearing him away from his family and only friend, shredding him between worlds and spitting him back out again.  In return, he dismantled it; reduced it to spare parts.  Fiddleford had recycled some, used them to power the Shacktron during Weirdmageddon then dismantled them again.  Ford had picked through the scrap heap, giving most of it to Fiddleford for his future inventions and incorporating the rest into the Stan O’ War II to power its generator.    
  
He leaned into the barren space where the supercomputer once stood.  The lab walls, cold metal and splintered wood, dripped with remorseful recollections and words he wished could be unsaid.   _Why did I come here?_ He wondered as he crashed into his chair sending it rolling backwards, colliding with the desk.  It swiveled with a push of his foot against the ground and his arms draped over the desk.  He stared up at the angled glass separating the control room from the former active danger zone.  
  
Through the window, an empty cavern of darkness glared back at him, a blank slate once again, just as it was before the excitement of building something entirely new, something meant to bring knowledge to humanity.  He stared at the void, memories replaying in his mind like a movie he’d watched one too many times:  Fiddleford, frozen in shock, lying in his arms, sputtering codes and warning him of unthinkable dangers and a betrayal he could not fathom.  Fiddleford, quitting their project, their friendship, all they’d built together and leaving for good.  The instant regret for the loneliness imposed on himself with words spewed forth in the heat of a moment, words he never meant.  The ache of loss.  The doubt growing in his heart, cracking and splitting it.  The horror of his mistakes crashing over him and consuming him as he confronted his muse.    
  
He remembered guilt chipping away at his conscience when he sought out Fiddleford to apologize, to tell him he was right, expecting yelling and anger or the wounded pride of an _“I told you so”_ but receiving far worse; a blank smile and an innocently uttered “Do we know each other?”  Turning to leave with a quiet “No, I must have been mistaken” believing his former friend was better off without him, better off not remembering him, not being drawn back into the storm he’d stirred.  
  
He remembered His mind slipping away as he descended into panic and paranoia.  The decision to swallow his pride and call for help.  His sleep-deprived, scotch-soaked delirium when his brother arrived.  His twin’s face agape in awe, gentle at first then flushed with rage and pain and both all at once as their fiery words fueled their fists.  Terror gripping him as he was drawn backwards into Hell, the Hell which had traumatized his friend into erasing his own mind after only a glimpse…        
  
His friend who had spent sleepless nights working side by side with him, the intoxication of their curiosity and drive to succeed sustaining their toil with relentless enthusiasm.  He remembered countless nights and days passing him a wrench, working out equations to the tune of a lightly pucked banjo, watching sparks spring up and fade, drifting through the dimness as Fiddleford welded another scrap of extraterrestrial technology into place.  There were good times but they had been poisoned by grief, regret, and anger for so long. _How could he possibly…  After all this time and all he’s been through because…  because of me!  No.  There’s no way anyone could feel that way about…  about me.  
_  
A framed photo of two preteens stared at him, struggling to contradict his thoughts.   _“Those kids really care about you.  And you care about them, don’t you?”  
_  
He did.  But did they?  He hated himself for wondering but did they really?  They’d rallied the town to rescue him but was it just because he knew of a way to defeat Bill?  A way that didn’t even work because he had to have the last word in a decades old fight with his brother…   _“Him and me, not me and him.”_  It was his way of digging, telling Stan to stop putting himself first, putting his broken feelings before the fate of the world.  But it wasn’t the time or place for it and he wasn’t in his right mind.    
  
He didn’t want to believe it when Bill taunted him; told him that his own brother didn’t care what happened to him. _“I thought he might try something stupid like rescuing you.  Hoo boy was I wrong.  I guess when he said those kids were the only family he had, he wasn’t kidding.  Wow Sixer, what did you do to make him hate you so much?”_  He still wasn’t sure if the demon actually knew how things were unfolding or if he was simply spinning tales to manipulate him.    
  
Either way Stan had stuttered his way through a confession about his reluctance and apathy on a starry night aboard the Stan O’War II.  At the time, Ford had told him that he understood, that everything was alright between them but he knew it wasn’t.  It was better than it had been in decades but many unresolved issues remained unspoken.  There were times he wanted to fight, times he disagreed, times he wanted to yell but he bit his tongue.  To bring an end to Weirdmageddon, Stan had sacrificed everything but Ford knew very well it was for the kids, for a world they could live happily in, not for him.  He was grateful with every fiber of his being for what Stan had done but still, after Stan’s confession, he couldn’t help thinking that saving him was likely nothing more than a convenient side effect.  But he almost lost him just like he’d lost Fiddlford all those years ago, like he’d lost him before when they were still teenagers.  He didn’t care anymore what Stan’s motives were at that time, he simply didn’t want to see someone he cared for suffer again.  
  
His finger tipped the binder filled with Stan’s copies of his third journal back and forth.  At one point his brother had cared.  At one point he had gone to great lengths to help him, even if he couldn’t thank him at the time.  He couldn’t see past thirty years on the run only to be faced with his worst fears when his brother reopened the portal.  He could only see the world thrown into chaos.  He couldn’t think beyond seeing his home and life’s work turned into a roadside attraction, being mocked as a freak yet again.  And when Stan disowned him and forbade him from interacting with the kids, all he could manage was locking himself in the basement to deal with the fallout alone.    
  
He grew to understand that his brother had cared enough about him to save him, that everything he’d done was to bring him back.  He was grateful but by the time his head had cleared, he thought it was too late, that nothing he could say or do would repair their broken bond.  He didn’t blame Stan for hating him…  
  
Even before the kids were able to retrieve Stan’s memories, Ford had resolved to do whatever it took to assure his brother’s happiness, to put him first, to make him the center of the world and hopefully ease the self-hatred he never knew Stan had struggled with over the years.  The feeling was all too familiar and he hated that his brother had battled as fiercely with it as he had.    
  
He tore off his glasses, covering his eyes with both hands, his arms trembling and his breath coming in swift, ragged bursts.  Behind him he heard the elevator’s gears whirring and clanking.  It was ascending.  He didn’t have long before whoever summoned it would descend into his gloomy sanctuary.  Dipper probably.  Another mistake.  He was so overjoyed to connect with someone again after so many years that he tried to keep him in town, offered him an apprenticeship.  Of course he had to turn it down.  He had to return to his parents.  It was only right.  It didn’t mean he didn’t care.  And Mabel…  He’d understand if she hated him after that.  But no it couldn’t be, she’d helped him so much over the past few months.  But that was her nature.  She was helpful and kind and always the optimist.  They did care, he knew they did…  Even if their bond was stronger with Stan, of course it was.  They had spent more time together.  Of course they darted to him for a hug and fell asleep against his shoulders. _It’s my own fault.  I’ve kept the distance there because…  because Stan was right.  I am dangerous…  because…  I don’t even know how to begin to build what he has with them, with Soos and Wendy or… or anyone._  
  
_Pull yourself together.  Stop being a fool.  You’re fine.  You’ve always been fine and you’ll just have to continue being fine.  Assess things.  What just happened?  Did Fiddleford really say he… he…?  It can’t be true.  It’s not possible.  Nobody has ever…  No.  Mom was the only one who ever said that and…  It’s been too long.  I wouldn’t even know how to do this…  I can’t.  And anyway it can’t be true…_  
  
The elevator clunked to a halt behind him.  With a whoosh, the doors opened.    
  
Ford’s back straightened and he reached for his glasses, sliding them back onto his face.  He swiveled his chair around to greet whomever emerged.    
  
“Grunkle Ford?  Are you OK?”  Dipper spoke softly, creeping forward into the lab’s blue dimness.    
  
“Dipper,” his voice shook despite his best efforts to smile, “Y-yes.  I’m fine.”    
  
“What happened back there?  You uh…  you want to talk about it?”  He rubbed the back of his neck unsure of what to say or do.  
  
“Not particularly.”  Ford answered, leaning his elbow on the desk and cradling his cheek in his hand.    
  
“Yeah didn’t think so.”  The young teen rubbed his arm, trying to think of something to say to be of some comfort his Great uncle.  But he didn’t fully understand what was wrong and it wasn’t like he had any real experience with relationships, just that crush he had…  It was the only thing he could think of so he went with it.  Any conversation was better than the miserable silence.  “You know, before Grunkle Stan brought you back, I…  I had the biggest crush on Wendy.”  
  
“Oh?”    
  
“Yeah,” Dipper answered, unsure of where he was going with his train of thought.  “At one point I used that magic clone copier upstairs in a crazy scheme to try to I dunno, let’s just say I had an enormous detailed plan to try to get closer to her and maybe let her know how I feel.  Heh, I think some of the clones might still be out there somewhere…”  
  
“Did your plan work?”    
  
Dipper had no idea if his awkward attempt at a conversation was doing any good but it seemed to be pulling his great uncle away from the brink of something terrible so he continued, “Well no.  The plan was too…  plan-y.  But I did get to talk to her anyway.  And it was fun.  I didn’t tell her how I felt though and she ended up dating that jerk, Robbie, for a while.”  
  
“Oh.  I’m sorry.  So what happened?  Did you ever tell her?”  
  
“Well sort of.  There was this whole fiasco in your bunker with the shape shifter and I may have blurted it out when I kinda thought she was dead…”  
  
“Ah yes I had wondered why Shifty was frozen in your form.  You can imagine my shock when I went down to the bunker to raid it for parts.  I nearly unfroze him thinking he was you!  It’s rather disconcerting that he managed to escape the chamber Fiddleford and I froze him in, though.  I suppose the energy core we salvaged from the alien ship must have finally expired.”  Ford’s brows furrowed and he shook his head.  “Quite a nasty beast he turned out to be.  I tried to raise him like a son at first.  Turned out he was fooling me the entire time.  He shape shifted into an egg and made me believe he was an innocent newborn.  All he wanted was access to more forms to take.  Please tell me everyone escaped your encounter alright.  That creature was truly heartless.”  
  
“Yeah we got out okay.  I mean, a little wounded but generally okay.”  
  
“You kids are Brilliant.  You and your sister and your friends amaze me.”  Ford mustered a smile, eliciting one from Dipper as well.  “So what happened with Wendy?”  
  
“We talked.  I kinda knew she didn’t like me as anything more than a friend.  I guess that’s why it was so hard to talk to her about it before that.”  
  
“But you’re still close friends, right?”  
  
“Yeah.  Things are good between us now.”  
  
“That’s good…”  
  
“So uh…”  Dipper’s hands fidgeted and his mind beat itself up.  He wanted to mention that his great uncle should tell Fiddleford whatever he was feeling and that they could probably work it out but he wasn’t sure how to say it or even if it was appropriate.  He had enough trouble trying to deal with a simple crush on a girl with no baggage attached.  He knew he’d only scraped the surface of what had transpired between his great uncle and the man who had wiped out his own memory.  Maybe he could find out more.  They’d found Fiddleford’s laptop in the bunker.  They must have spent time there together.  His thoughts swirled in his head like glitter in a shaken snow globe and he blurted out the first thing that surfaced, “Why did you have decades worth of Smez in that bunker anyway?”    
  
“That..  That was our favorite back then, Fiddleford and I, bit of a running joke between us since college.”  His lips curled into a nostalgic smile and a near-stifled laugh escaped him.  “His parents used to send them to him in care packages and he’d complain that it made him feel like a three year old.  But he’d always eat them anyway and share some with me.  Got me hooked on the darned things too.  The sugar rush proved valuable while we were cramming for exams.  We started buying funny dispensers whenever we saw them and giving them to each other as gag gifts.  For more than ten years he gave me one for every birthday and I’d get one for him, always trying to one-up each other on the ridiculousness of it.  I suppose he must have stocked all of that in the old lab.  After he was nearly pulled into the portal and before he began erasing his mind, I imagine he started storing _a lot_ of things down there because he truly believed it was going to end the world…”  
  
“I thought you did that.  The invisible ink in your journal said it was a last resort…”  
  
“Indeed it did.  I didn’t know back then that Fiddleford had the same idea.  He’d already altered the lab to a fallout shelter by the time I investigated it as a possibility.  By then it was too late to reconcile.  He’d already wiped his mind and didn’t remember me…  I wanted to tell him he was right…”  
  
The walls of the basement lab rattled as an unholy screech sounded above.  
  
“What was that?!” Dipper held his arm above his head as dust and debris rained down with another tremor.  
  
His great uncle had already bolted to the elevator and motioned for Dipper to join him.  Another shriek, like the call of a hawk mixed with the growl of a grizzly, clattered the chain link doors.  Dipper followed on his great uncle’s heels as his muddied boots thumped through the house and out the gift shop door.    
  
Mabel and Fiddleford were already outside, knee-deep in snow and cast in a massive shadow.  Their wide eyes stared at the sky above the towering trees in awe.  Dipper zipped his coat and started forward, stalling as the snow reached his calves.  He felt strong arms lift him from the cold and he was carried toward his sister and the hillbilly genius.  Ford set him down, one hand protectively resting on his shoulder, the other on Mabel’s.      
  
Before Ford could look up, the ground rumbled.  From between the trees a stampede of gnomes crashed through like a wave of pointy red hats breaking upon the trees.  They scampered on all fours like frightened puppies, nearly trampling the two elders and the twins.    
  
“Jeff?  Shmebulock?”  Mabel questioned as they darted past her.  
  
“Run!  It’s gonna eat us all!”  Jeff shouted back to Mabel.    
  
Dipper and Ford looked to the sky.  Looming above was a winged reptile cast in shadow against the hazy clouds.  Dipper’s jaw dropped.  “The pterodactyl?!  But how!?”  his voice squeaked.    
  
“What’s it doing out in this kind of cold?” Mabel asked, pointing to the steam rising from her breath.      
  
“That tha’re’s no pterodactyl,” Fiddleford shook his head, sheltering himself as snow rained down from the trees, shaken loose by its beating wings.    
  
“Fiddleford’s right,” Ford affirmed.  With fists clenched at his sides he stepped forward to face the anomalous flying reptile.  His eyes narrowed and he commanded, “Shifty!  I know that’s you!  Come down here and face me if you want a fight!”  
  
“Very good, father” The last word twisted, a cruel joke shot out like an arrow to Ford’s heart.  “So I’m Shifty to you again, huh?  Not experiment 210 anymore?”  The flapping of its wings stirred the snowdrifts sending whirls of icy snow into the kids’ faces.  Ford flipped his coat back and drew his blaster.  Fiddleford slipped his banjo strap over his head, wielding the stringed instrument like a baseball bat.  Together they stepped forward, sheltering the kids behind them, their coats swishing around them like capes caught in a whirlwind.    
  
“Ah yes.  That’s right,” Ford growled, “You became experiment 210 the first time you tried to kill us.  Perhaps the years have eroded my anger.  But I haven’t forgotten your tricks.  You nearly drove us to madness and I will not allow a repeat of that.”  
  
“You kept me in a cage,” the shapshifter snarled.    
  
“Oh d-don’t you try ta act all victim-mi-mized!  We trusted you an’ you took Stanford’s form and tried ta’ chop me up with a machete!”  Fiddleford steadied himself, swatting the ends of his beard out of his face and struggling to keep his footing against the gale stirred up by the reptile’s wings.    
  
“Then when I walked in on your murder attempt,” Ford added, his face wrinkled indignantly, “you changed into that centipede creature and chased us both down.  We had no choice but to subdue and contain you!”    
  
“Ah yes, I suppose you could call that my unfinished business,” the shape shifter perched on a treetop.  It arched forward under its weight sending a cascade of snow and ice down upon its prey.  “That, and those two brats behind you.  They’re the ones I came looking for.  Seeing you two old pals again…  well it’s an interesting development to say the least.  Last time I saw you, father, you were nearly out of your mind.”  It laughed, a twisted and heartless sound.  “Then you froze me in that chamber.”  
  
“Because you drove me to madness!”  Ford stood his ground, unwilling to relent to the shape shifter’s guilt inducing words.    
  
“And you, little buddy,” It sneered, its head tilting to address Fiddleford, “I don’t know what had you so out of sorts but you were muttering something about the end of the world last time I saw you.”  
  
“Yeah I was transforming that lab into a bunker ta stay alive until I saw you’d thawed out.  I locked the place up good ta make sure you’d never scapdoodle outta th'are!”    
  
The reptile’s head lowered, the sun catching its eye in a threatening yellow glare.  
  
“You ain’t scarin’ me!  Last time a pterodactyl tried ta eat me _I ate_ my way out of it!”  Fiddleford held his banjo out like a sword, “I won’t hesi-ma-tate to do it agi’n!”    
  
“Fiddleford?”  Ford’s head tilted as he gave his old friend an empathetic smile.  “Heh, not the tidiest way of escaping the belly of a beast but you certainly don’t need to eat again for a few days after.”    
  
“Wait what?!”  Dipper looked to his great uncle with wide eyes, “How do you even…?”  
  
“Whoa that’s how you got out of that pterodactyl?” Mabel asked.  “We wondered how you got away when we found out you built that robot for Gideon…”    
  
“Yeah about that…  no hard feelin’s right?  I mean…  ya’all did kinda leave me hangin’ back there…  And ya know…  buildin’ giant robots to get revenge is kinda my thing an all…”    
  
“He’s right, we kind of did just leave him there…” Dipper’s reply blended together with Mabel’s, “Yeah you have a point…”  
  
“Hey!” the shape shifter barked, its damp breath rumbling down through the pine needles in a sewage scented gust.  “Seriously, you’re going to just stand around talking while I’m threatening you?  Enough of this!”  Its wings flapped against the trees breaking branches and sending a torrent of snow and icicles to the ground.  It swooped down, aiming for Dipper, its talons ready to seize him.    
  
Dipper dodged, flopping face first into the snow.  Ford took aim and pulled the trigger, sending a bolt of blue toward the creature’s belly.  The shape shifter’s beaked head reared back with a shriek but the blast had barely penetrated it’s thick, leathery scales.  
  
The pterodactyl shaped anomaly paused with narrowed eyes, shaking off the damage as if it was a paper cut.  It plunged down again, glowing as it shifted to its true form.  It charged toward Mabel, little more than a glossy blur against the snow, spindly legs cutting effortlessly through it.    
  
Before Ford or Fiddleford could react, she dove into a snowdrift beside the shack and reemerged with a determined smile on her frozen, reddened face and a leaf blower in her hands.  She tugged the pull cord and with a gaseous blast it rumbled into reverse, sucking the shape shifter toward it.              
  
It morphed again, its slimy, nearly transparent flesh shifting to flames then to the dark brown fur of a manotaur.  With a slobbering roar it knocked the leaf blower from her hands.  She rolled away as Ford aimed his blaster at its hairy hide.  With a jump, it dodged the blast, transforming into a lanky dark figure.    
  
Closing in on Ford, it morphed into a different form with each step toward him:  A younger version of Fiddleford, golden hair and white lab coat flapping in the breeze.  A younger version of Ford, brown hair tousled, dark rings around his eyes.  A child, cast in faded color just like the photo Ford had stared at countless times.  Stanley.  Finally it shifted to the shadow of a triangle with one glowing eye, the silhouette of Bill it had seen while flipping through the third journal.      
  
Ford’s breath caught.  His blaster slipped from his grasp, plopping into the snow as he took a step back.  His limbs stiffened.  The color drained from his face. _It’s not him.  It’s not.  It can’t be._  
  
The shape shifter laughed as it floated closer to its petrified prey, “Oh this form is effective, isn’t it?”    
  
“Grunkle Ford!”  Dipper and Mabel shouted in unison, charging toward him.  
  
“St- Stay back!”  He commanded, his tone grave enough to stop them from wading forward through the snow.    
  
“Stanford?” Fiddleford reached out to him, drawing his hand back as Ford hurtled toward the shadowy creature.    
  
The shape shifter spun through the air, dodging his attack with a laugh, “Oh-ho, looks like everyone has a weakness, eh tough guy?”  
  
_I’ll make you talk._  Ford collapsed to his knees, the phantom buzz of electricity sparking through him.   _It’s only a matter of time._ Burning metal against his wrists and neck, lightning jolting across shackles, searing his face, the smell of burning hair and cloth.  His body arching involuntarily, limbs confined unnaturally, aching from the strain. _Ready to talk?_   Exhaustion.  Breathlessness.  Pain.      
  
“No…  I won’t let you into my mind…” Ford muttered, his body trembling.    
  
“Wow,” The shape shifter jabbed, drifting closer, “You’re acting just like you did back then…   _‘Am I him, is he me?’_ ”  It mocked in a whiny tone.     
  
Just as Fiddleford was about to jump between the two and clobber the equilateral shadow into a puddle of parts with his banjo, a not-so-distant roar echoed through the valley.  The ground rumbled as if thunderous footsteps approached.    
  
“Oh man, what now?” Dipper’s voice shook as he wrapped his arms around Mabel and she wrapped hers around him.  
  
The shape shifter glanced around, searching for the source of the approaching ruckus.  Branches snapped behind the shack and a monolithic figure emerged.  A towering giant formed of little red-hatted men stomped forward.    
  
“Hey!  We don’t joke about that- that thing in this forest,” Jeff spat out, commanding the giant’s arm to lift, a conical red hat pointing like a finger at the shadowy triangle.  The gnomes charged and the shape shifter morphed rapidly between forms.  A three-eyed toad shifted to Wendy, then to the twisted image of the younger twins melted together, then to a gremlobin, and finally to its centipede form.  It rolled into the tower of gnomes, splitting them apart.  They gathered again, reforming the giant and pounded a fist into the creature as it unraveled itself.    
  
As the gnomes wrestled with the shape shifter, Fiddleford edged closer to Ford, huddled in the snow, grasping his wrist, eyes glazed over.    
  
“No no!  Not the kids!” He panted, his body shaking, reaching out desperately for something that wasn’t there.      
  
“Grunkle Ford…?  We’re ok.  We’re right here.”  Dipper shuffled closer.  
  
“What’s wrong, Grunkle Ford?  What’s going on?”  Mabel looked up to Fiddleford with teary eyes.    
  
“Stanford…”    
  
Fiddleford reached out to rest his hand on his shoulder but recoiled as Dipper shouted, “Stop!  Don’t.  Don’t touch him right now.  I’ve read about this.  I read a lot about it after Weirdmageddon.  I think he’s having a flashback or something.  We- we have to try to talk to him.”  Dipper trudged through the icy whiteness toward his great uncle.  He knelt in front of him, sinking into the snow nearly to his waist.  “Grunkle Ford, we’re right here.  Mabel and I are here.  We’re safe.  You’re safe…  relatively.”  He looked over his shoulder at the raging battle.  Two gnome giants grappled with each other, slamming against the trees and rolling on the forest floor.    
  
“D-dipper…” Ford’s eyes focused on him.  His hand grasped his wrist again, fingers pushing aside the cuff of his sweater just enough the feel the scars below without baring them.    
  
“Yeah it’s me.”  
  
“And me too,” Mabel knelt beside her brother.  
  
“Can you feel anything?  Can you move?  Is it alright if I-?”  He reached out for his uncle’s hand.  
  
Ford nodded, tugging his sweater sleeve down and offering his hand to his great nephew.  Dipper grabbed a clump of snow and placed it in his hand.    
  
“Can you feel that, the cold?”  
  
He nodded.    
  
“Look around.  Find something blue.  Tell me what you see.”    
  
He complied, blinking, trying to focus.  “Your coat.”  
  
“OK something red.”    
  
He looked from side to side, finding Fiddleford kneeling beside him.  “Vest…  Fiddleford…?  Mabel, Dipper?  What happened?  Where’s Bill!” He tried to stand, his legs wobbling beneath him, failing him.    
  
The long bearded man reached out for his arm, hesitating to glance at Dipper.  The young teen nodded.  Fiddleford draped his hand over Ford’s shoulder.   “Dipper said you were havin’ a flashback or somethin’.  You alright?”  
  
“Yes…  yes, I’m fine. What’s that noise?”  His eyes scanned the forest, his vision blurry at first.   The fog faded as he searched for the source of the roaring, thundering fight.  “It sounds like gnomes…”  
  
“It is.  And um, the shape shifter…” Mabel explained, flinching at a ground-shaking thud.  
  
“Shape-  Oh no!  Is everyone alright?”  This time his legs lifted him.  He reached for his blaster, patting the empty holster.  “My blaster, where is it?”  
  
“In the snow somewhere,” Dipper glanced around, uncertain of where it may have landed, “There!”  He handed it to his great uncle, “But you should probably rest for a bit.  I think the gnomes have this under control-” the roar of the pterodactyl cut off his sentence.  Fiddleford and Ford’s eyes widened  as a shadow spread over them.  “Or not…”  Dipper and Mabel turned, tilting their heads to the sky.    
  
Jeff, Shmebulock, and a few other gnomes were wedged in the shape shifter’s talons.  It laughed and threatened, “I take it these are friends of yours?  Well if you want to see them again, follow me…”    
  
“Gyaaaahhhh!”  Jeff Shrieked as the creature gained altitude.    
  
“Oh man!  We have to help them!”  Mabel tugged at Ford’s coat.  
  
“Do we really?”  Dipper asked with a raised eyebrow.  
  
“YES!  They helped us!” She pouted.    
  
“Yeah I guess you’re right…”  Dipper shrugged, resigning himself over to the rescue mission.    
  
Ford’s heart crashed to his stomach as he heard a car pull up behind them.  He turned.  Stanley’s red land-yacht rolled to a stop and the engine rattled into silence.  “No no no!  Don’t get out of the…”  Stan stepped out and slammed the door behind him.  “…car.”    
  
Humming, he opened the trunk and reached in for a bag of groceries.  “Doop-de-do, bringing in the groceries…”  
  
“Stanley!”  Ford shouted, his voice cracking in panic, “Get in the house now!”  
  
Stan lifted his head, smashing it on the trunk door.  "Ow!  Son of a…!  Ford, what the heck?!“  Confusion spread across his face as he rubbed his head, fingers tangling in his silver hair, pulling strands loose from his ponytail.  “What’s going on?”  
  
The pterodactyl shaped creature’s head turned.  “Stanley?  That brother of yours you used to mumble about in your sleep?  Oh-ho You’re kidding me!  This is too perfect.”  The gnomes dropped from its talons, tumbling  through the air and into a lump of powdery white.  Jeff caught the branch of a tree on the way down and clung to it, screaming for the others to get him down.    
  
“Oh no.  No.  NO!”  Ford’s eyes widened.  “Stanley run!”  
  
“What the heck’s going on here?  I leave the place for an hour and…”  The pterodactyl dove toward him, talons spread.  “Aw darn,” he said flatly.  The bag of groceries dropped from his arms as he stared in a stunned stupor.  He tore his eyes away from the approaching creature, turning to run for the door.  Talons wrapped around his shoulders and lifted him from his feet.  
  
“Stanley!”  Ford shouted, trying to run after them.  His legs gave out in the frozen drifts sending him tumbling forward.    
  
“Not this again,” Stan pinched his nose, his glasses tipping up.  “What is this deja vu?  Didn’t I already punch you in the face once?”  His hand slipped down, dragging over his bearded chin in exasperation.  He wriggled back and forth and side to side, freeing his shoulders from the pterodactyl’s grasp.  With strength he hadn’t realized he’d developed over the past few months, he climbed it’s legs and hoisted himself onto it’s back using its wing like a ladder rung.  The pterodactyl screeched, flying erratically, crashing into trees in attempts to dislodge the man climbing closer and closer to its face.  It roared as a brass knuckled fist slammed into its eye.  Its head flung back and forth with Stan clinging to its face.  In a flash of light it shifted back to its true form.    
  
“What the?!”  Stan grunted before realizing his arms gripped nothing but air and he was falling fast.  “Oh no- AAAAAHHH!” His constant yell silenced as he landed in a snowdrift beside the glossy white shape shifter.    
  
“Grunkle Stan!”  The twins yelled, trudging toward him.    
  
“Stanley…  no…”  Ford groaned as Fiddleford helped him to his feet.  
  
The shape shifter emerged from the snow.  Tucked beneath its arm was Stan, unconscious.  “You worried about him?  Want him back?  Then, come and get him!”  The snarling creature turned and ran, leaving a trail of pointed footprints behind.    
  
“Stan…  STANLEY!”  Ford reached out desperately after them. **  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Oh Ford… He wanted to save Stan but drew attention to him instead… Poor oblivious well-meaning owl…


	4. Faded Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dipper, Mabel, Ford, Fiddleford, and the gnomes follow the shape shifter's tracks, hoping Stan is still alive and unharmed. Memories of their youth resurface when the team splits up and Ford and Fiddleford revisit their old lab. 
> 
> *This one has some sentimental fluff...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to themadcapmathematician.tumblr.com, winterjameson.tumblr.com, and theunknownerrorvirus.tumblr.com for helping me pick a ringtone for Stan's phone. And thanks also to usually-confused.tumblr.com for helping me develop ideas. 
> 
> Disclaimer: This by no means reflects the feelings, emotions, or views of all asexuals. Besides the fact that asexuality is a spectrum, everyone is different and holds their own combination of desires, perspectives, and feelings. This is just one of countless combinations of those.

The sun sank below the cliffs of Gravity Falls casting the valley in shades of blue under an orange sky. Tremors quaked across the forest floor with each lumbering step of a giant composed of tiny gnomes. It followed Stanford and Fiddleford through the otherwise silent forest as they examined an inconsistent trail of shifting tracks. Upon the giant’s extended hand sat two young teens.

Dipper and Mabel huddled together, shivering as the cold seeped through the extra long scarf they shared. They had defied their great uncle and his old friend when they both advised them to stay safe, back home in the Mystery Shack, but despite their frozen feet and noses, they regretted nothing. Waiting and wondering would have been far worse; waiting for some word on their Grunkle Stan’s whereabouts, wondering if the shape shifter had hurt their Grunkle Ford or Fiddleford as well. No amount of plush quilts or hot chocolate was worth missing out on helping save the one who was willing to sacrifice everything for them.

Mabel had been smart enough to pull her magenta quilted coat and matching knit scarf, hat, and gloves from the hook beside the door on her way out to investigate the raging pterodactyl screeches. Dipper, however, was lucky his great uncle had grabbed his blue parka as they darted outside and that he barely ever removed Wendy’s fur-lined hat from his head.

Fiddleford had already gathered his gloves and scarf before the noises shook the Mystery Shack earlier that day. His thick wool coat was buttoned up to his neck, the red and orange striped scarf wrapped around his head and ears, hat perched atop it.

Ford, however, had grabbed Dipper’s coat but scurried outside without his own when a sickening crunch sounded from above the shack. He didn’t imagine they’d be rushing off after his brother, wondering if he was even still alive or… _No_. He wouldn’t let himself think the worst. Stanley was not only alive but he was probably teaching that shape shifter a lesson or two with his left hook by now. He glanced ahead at the tracks in the snow, confused at their direction. “This is strange.” He tugged the nearly threadbare cotton of his khaki lab coat around himself, his words laced in a shiver as he spoke, “I thought for sure 210 would have tried to lure us back to the old lab.”

“Indeedely-doo! After all this time down th’are, I figured it’d want us in familiar terri-ma-tory.” Fiddleford’s voice was muffled by his scarf, his green glasses fogging up with every word.

“Where is it leading us? Are these even the right tracks anymore?” Ford wondered aloud as the prints of four spindly toes shifted to a line carved through the snow.

Fiddleford bent down, tugged his scarf away from his face and sniffed the forest floor in the center of the trail like a bloodhound. “Smells like carbonated bologna and cigar smoke. Yep. I’d say we‘re still on the right track!”

Despite the worry twisting his intestines into knots, Ford let out a breathy laugh, watching as it hung in the air, a cloud of warmth in the chilled twilight. “I still don’t know how you do that,” he shook his head with a weak smile.

“Wait, is he really tracking that thing?” Dipper asked, pulling Wendy’s hat tighter onto his head, thankful for the warmth against his ears.

“Certainly. You used to track things like this all the time when we went out looking for anomalies years ago, right Fiddleford?”

Without losing focus he answered, “Sure did!”

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Ford clasped his hands behind his back, shoulders squared in pride for his old friend.

“Totally! Can you teach me how to do that?!” Mabel jumped down from the gnome giant’s hand and watched with starry eyes as the long-bearded man rubbed a pebble between his fingers, adjusting his thick green glasses to examine it.

“To be honest, some of the tricks he taught me probably saved my life on multiple occasions while…” Ford’s voice trailed off as Fiddleford leapt to his feet and plodded through the snowy trench to its tapered end. The silver-haired scientist motioned for the others to follow, grateful for the interruption in his near slip-up, a memory uttered by mistake which could have raised far more questions than he was willing to answer at the moment.

The gnome giant bent down allowing Dipper to help his sister back up onto its hand. It lumbered after the older men, trees vibrating and snow slopping up in its wake.

“I know where it went! Look!” Fiddleford pointed to a zigzag of trees whose limbs were snapped and frayed. The trail of destruction led to a dilapidated church barely standing in a clearing between the towering pines. The facade and steeple creaked of their own accord as if protesting their continued existence, separated from the crumbled remains of the side and back walls.

“The dinosaur cave.” Dipper smacked his forehead. “Of course! That’s how it learned the pterodactyl form!”

“But how did it get in there?” Mabel asked.

Dipper tapped his chin. “Actually it makes sense. Remember all those tunnels it was digging in the bunker?”

“It must have unfrozen while we were away and tunneled through into one of the old mines down there!” Mabel shook his shoulders leaving him somewhat disoriented.

“Exactly.” He slurred, rubbing his dizzied head.

“So it is leading us back to the old lab.” A part of Ford’s mind winced as he remembered the church, thirty years younger. Even then the paint had begun peeling from the siding. Though he never attended services there, he had admired the way the sun gleamed against the stained glass windows, now laying in shards somewhere below the winter white. He and Fiddleford had investigated the site together when the congregation complained of weird noises from below the floorboards. When they found dinosaurs frozen in sticky sap below, they decided to claim the foundation was crumbling irreparably to keep the townspeople safe until they could find a way to contain the fully grown living fossils (once the sap inevitably freed them). “Wow…” Ford mused, “It must be a labyrinth down there by now.”

“What does the shape shifter want with us, anyway?” Dipper asked, climbing down from the gnome giant’s hand. “What if this is a trap?”

“Psh. Of course it’s a trap.” Mabel swung herself over the edge of the gnome’s hand, and landed nimbly on her feet.

“Yes, although knowing shifty, we need not fear nets nor death traps. He was always better at mind games, making you doubt things and make mistakes. Right now he wants revenge on all of us for subduing him. It’s in his nature to hunt humans which, admittedly, is not in itself a crime. It’s rather like us hunting for food. That’s why Fiddleford and I simply froze him rather than destroying him. In the end it came down to protecting ourselves.  Unfortunately more pressing matters distracted us from finding a better solution.” Ford explained as he examined the precariously teetering remains of the church's facade, one finger poking the buckled and bent door frame. It creaked and crumbled causing an icicle to crack loose and smash against the threshold.

He leaned around either side of the remains. The walls had crashed down with the roof leaving a snow-coated pile of splintered wood and rusty nails. While he and Fiddleford would have jumped right in back in their day, and possibly if they were alone on this one, there was no way he would let the kids wade through the lumps of injury waiting to happen. They had to take their chances with the weather ravaged entrance.

They tiptoed through, scrunched in on themselves to avoid so much as a tap against the icicle fanged frame.

“Wow this place is even more of a wreck than before,” Dipper’s voice dripped in a sense of awe as he examined the split boards which had crashed down from the ceiling. Stained glass shards crunched beneath his boots as he edged forward past the snow dusted remains of the church’s pews.

“Yeah this may have been our fault.” Mabel elbowed him.

Fiddleford stood at the edge of the cavernous hole punched through the rickety floor boards. His head tilted from side to side curiously as he stared down into the darkness. “Welp! I’m ready to dive in if you are!”

“Wait!” Mabel rushed forward, grabbing his arm and pulling him away before he could swan dive into the winding mines below. “We need a plan!”

“Mabel, do our plans ever actually work?” Dipper asked.

“Of course they do. Our plans are great! Grunkle Ford, McGucket! You go to the bunker entrance and get ready to make the shape shifter into a popsicle again. We’ll chase it back to the cryogenic-y freez-y chambers and get Grunkle Stan back!” Mabel commanded, one hand perched on her hip, the other twirling her grappling hook.

“No! That’s too dangerous,” Ford protested, shaking his head like a worried mother.

“Psh, we’ll be fine. Besides, Jeff and the gnomes can come with us, right guys?”

“Yeah, uh sure. Dive into something you called the dinosaur caves to chase after a monster of unimaginable horror to save the guy that wanted to eat us during weirdmageddon. Sounds exactly like what I wanted to do with my evening…”

“Shmebulock…”

“Ugh,” Jeff grunted, rolling his eyes, “Yeah, you’re right, Shmebulock. Fine. We’ll go. But only because you guys were going to help us when that thing tried to gnomenap us.”

“No way,” Ford insisted, “I absolutely cannot let you kids do this. Stanley would kill me if he found out I-” It was too late. Mabel had already, grabbed Dipper by the waist, and jumped in, grappling hook ready to fire. He lowered his extended finger, words trailing off helplessly, “let you jump into a trap…”

“Hey, you nerds be careful out there.” Jeff laughed, snapping Ford out of his temporary stupor. “We don’t need you two gullible idiots getting tricked into selling your hands to the witch or something.” He pointed at Ford and Fiddleford.

“What?!” Ford huffed, balling his fists at his sides.

“What, you think my dad didn’t tell me how easy it was to mess with you two? Sheesh. Shmebulock’s dad laughed about it on his deathbed, right?”

“Shmebulock.”

“See?”

“Why you little!” Ford swiped at the gnome, trying to catch its hat.

“Ha!” Jeff held his hat tight to his head and sidestepped the swipe. “He’s still fascinated by our hats! See what I mean, guys? Gullible.”

Ford’s hand slid down his face, tugging on his resentful frown, “I assure you we’ll be just fine. But you! Please… don’t let anything happen to Dipper and Mabel.” His shoulders sagged with his plea.

“You really care about them, don’t you?”

Ford’s nails dug into his hands as he tried to keep his mind clear. That voice. That twisted nasally voice echoed in his head as if he was floating mere feet away once again. _“Cold,”_ he thought, focusing on his frozen nose and ears. _“It’s cold. It was hot then. Summer. It’s over. We defeated him.”_ He inhaled sharply through his mouth and exhaled slowly, watching his breath rise and dissipate. “Yes. Yes I do.” He answered a little sharper than intended.

“Alrighty then, boss.” Jeff saluted him with a sarcastic curl of his upper lip. “Will do. Come on guys, form a chain!” The gnomes chained themselves together, descending into the depths.

“Do you think we should follow ‘em?” Fiddleford rested his hand on Ford’s arm, brows furrowed in concern at the look of horror on his face as he stared down into the pit.

Ford felt as if the kids had taken his heart with them when they jumped. But they had a point. He shook his head to answer Fiddleford’s question. “No they’re right. We need to get to the lab and prepare a plan to contain 210. They may have figured out the controls for the cryogenic containment units in their previous encounter but if 210 broke free again, I fear there might be nothing left of them this time. I just hope the kids will be alright down there…”

“They ain’t really kids anymore though, are they?”

“No I suppose not. They’re growing up so fast…”

“Well if it’s any conso-mi-lation, I was down there with them last time and they ended up handling things just fine. Though, that was just with the dinos…”

“They managed to freeze 210 once before… I just have to believe they’ll be alright on their own for now. Let’s go. Best not keep them waiting.”

***

  
Stars glittered against a navy and purple sky by the time Ford and Fiddleford approached the false tree hiding the bunker entrance. Ford’s shoulders scrunched around his ears as he shuttered, the cold throughly soaked through his meager layers. He staggered forward, his arms crossed over his chest, frozen hands tucked under them. He was thankful Fiddleford insisted he borrow his scarf. He had protested the idea until the self-described hillbilly wrapped his beard around his neck with a proud grin and the declaration that he’d grown his own scarf. With a much needed laugh, a spark in the cloudy gloom of his concern for his brother, niece, and nephew, he accepted. He’d wrapped it around his neck and ears and buried his face in course wool and the smell of machine oil and candy.  He used his glasses to hold it in place over the bridge of his nose. Every rattling breath passing through his chapped lips fogged his lenses and he swore that despite the warm knit, there were icicles forming under his nose.

He looked to Fiddleford who was too focused on scanning the trees to notice much else. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes in a calculating expression, his pupils shifting from treetop to treetop. “There! That’s the one, if I ‘member right.” His beard unraveled from around his neck as he pointed up to the false tree which hid the entrance to their old lab.

Ford still dissociated from creating a somewhat convincing hiding spot. Had he and Fiddleford really managed to hollow out a tree, line it with a metal tube, and connect it to an underground lab? Had they really rigged up the lever and connected it to a hydraulic system which would lower a towering pine into the ground and reveal a hidden stairway and door? Somehow they truly _had_ done it. They were young and imaginative back then, willing to try to build anything just to see if they could.

He smiled at the memory of dirt smudged across their faces as they dug around the tree. He remembered Fiddleford’s mischievous grin as he rigged explosives to hollow out the subterranean lab, how it spread across his face as he shifted his hand to one side of the detonator, suggesting they trigger the blast together. He remembered returning to the house after long days, dripping in mud, dirt and moss dusting their hair. They’d crash in front of the TV, exhausted, and watch the latest episode of _Welcome Back Kotter_ or a rerun of _The Twilight Zone_ or _Alfred Hitchcoock Presents_ while munching on stale donuts from the Dusk 2 Dawn or loaded hamburgers from Greasy’s Diner. _Why wasn’t he going home earlier back then?_ He suddenly thought. Sure things changed when Tate was born. He’d head straight home at sunset then offer up leftover cornbread or chilled fried chicken to share the next day. But until then… Ford shook his head. _This isn’t the time. Keep going._

He focused on the tree Fiddleford had pointed out and answered his question, “Yes that’s the one.” With a flip of his coat, he drew his magnet gun and aimed for the trunk, just below the branch shaped lever. He steadied himself and pulled the trigger. A whoosh of frigid air smacked him in the face, billowing through his hair as he braced himself for impact. The magnet gun cemented itself to the tree with a metallic clunk, gripping the metal hidden below the rough bark. Hanging from it, Ford reached for the lever, his palm jutting upward to hit it. The tree rattled and clanked, jostling him against it. He spun the dial on his magnet gun to a lower setting and allowed gravity and his own weight to draw him back down.  The forest floor sank and revealed the spiral staircase emerging from the cylindrical wall below.

With a thrust of his feet against the tree trunk, Ford released the magnet gun’s trigger and jumped the circular gap, his feet slipping in the slush below. His knees protested his landing, muscles burning and pulling. For a moment he wondered how much longer he would have lasted traveling between worlds, running for cover from a bounty hunter, or fighting off whatever creature decided he looked like a tasty lunch. _Stan saved me. I hope he’s alright…_ He regained his footing and sprinted down the spiraling stairs.

Fiddleford followed him, taking slow, cautious steps. He hadn’t been back to the bunker since before he’d gotten carried away with erasing his memories. Most of that time was admittedly still a blur to him. Had he created The Society of the Blind Eye? Was he even a member? He leaned on the rounded wall, rubbing the side of his head as dizziness seemed to spin the world around him.

He followed Ford through the thin door into complete darkness and patted the wall, searching for the light switch. _There!_ He flicked it. Nothing. He toggled it up and down with a rapid clicking sound. Still nothing. “Looks like the light's gone and fizzle-ified itself out on us. Don’t suppose you got a flashlight or a lighter or anything in those bottomless pockets ‘a yours, huh?”

“Unfortunately no…” Fiddleford imagined Ford was shaking his head with his overly serious grumpy frown as he spoke. “Wait! Actually I do!” A pale light illuminated the silver-haired scientist’s face. His finger poked at its source, a mobile phone. “Now where was that… Oh there!” A white light pierced through the darkness from its underside.

“Whoa! It’s like the sun in a little box!” Fiddleford squinted at the sudden brightness of the LED light.

“Yes Dipper and Mabel insisted Stanley and I have these. Remarkable devices, really. I’ve barely scratched the surface of what it can do. Although… From what I’ve read… Fiddleford I’m sorry…” His head lowered and his shoulders drooped.

“Sorry?” he tilted his head, unsure of which thing Ford was sorry for this time. He’d already apologized countless times for everything from the portal incident to things he had no control over. _“It wasn’t your fault I went too far with erasing my mind,”_ he’d told him.

“Yes. I’m sorry I thought my work would be more productive than yours. Yours was heading in this direction! If I had never called you, asked you to come work with me here… You could have been the creator of things like this.” He motioned to the phone, his eyes strained with guilt and regret.

“Or not. I could just as easily have gotten arrested for buildin’ another deathbot. Just ‘cause it could have been doesn’t mean it would have. Stanford, all you did was offer me a job. I’m the one who accepted it.”

“But I didn’t believe in what you were doing. That… that’s what I’m sorry for. You believed my project would be successful and meaningful while I… I thought you were wasting your skills hiding out in a garage. I thought you had more potential.”

“Well at least ya’ thought I had skills an’ potential.” He tapped Ford’s arm with his knuckles, his heartbeat picking up tempo. He never did get a response to his confession earlier. _Now is not the time. Don’t honeyfoggle this up._ Thoughts blurred together in his mind like paint splattered on a page by a preschooler with four hands. _No stop. Not now. Keep your head on straight, McGucket…_ He followed the light spewing forth from the device in Ford’s hands as it scanned the room, studying the objects it illuminated to bind his thoughts to the present.

Shelves stretched to the ceiling, loaded in boxes of rations each labeled with a year. The light slid across long fibers of spiderwebs draped between the ceiling and the shelves, dotted with the remains of various insects. The old cot still stood where he’d left it thirty years ago, rusted and dripping in mildew. “Hey!” Something was missing from the wall. “Who went and burglarized my fallout shelter sign?”

“Oh. Interesting. I wonder if one of the kids has it. I don’t think 210 would have any use for it and I’m certain no one else has been down here,” Ford rambled as he and the light drifted forward. The glow flickered across the open weapon cabinet and paused.  
  
“Do you think you had enough Smez stored down here?” Ford chuckled. “Wait… I remember this.” He lifted a dispenser with the head of a pink and purple raccoon, the last one he’d given Fiddleford before the portal incident. “You kept this?”

“‘Course I did.” Fiddleford gave a wide, snaggletoothed smile.

Ford dug through the left inner pocket of his coat and produced an owl-headed dispenser whose paint had completely worn off over the years exposing the sickly yellow of the plastic base. Fiddleford remembered it even in its timeworn state. It was the one he’d rolled inside a galaxy print tie then wrapped up for Ford’s birthday back in 1981. He couldn’t hold back the snicker which sputtered through his lips. “Waitaminute… are you telling me that you didn’t have a lighter in those pockets of holding but you… you have that? You sentimental old codger!”

He imagined Ford must have been blushing from the way his six fingers ruffled the hair on the back of his head. “Maybe I didn’t have a lighter because I don’t need it anymore as long as I have this!” Ford sputtered, shadows flickering and dancing across the floor as he waved the phone. “Wait! WAIT! Oh man I am such an idiot! This thing is fist and foremost A PHONE! Is there… Yes! It’s weak but there _is_ reception down here!” The light flashed up the wall and illuminated the ceiling as he held it up.

Fiddleford watched as he frantically prodded the screen. The light circled around the room as he held it to his ear.

“It’s working. It’s ringing!”

****

Dipper and Mabel held their phones down, the screens illuminating various tracks scattered across the cavern’s floor. Dipper sighed, his hand sliding down his face in frustration as he saw that the tracks branched out into the five mining tunnels ahead.

“Ugh how are we supposed to follow that thing now?”

“I don’t know. Argh!” Mabel smacked her forehead. “You guys got any ideas?” She turned to the gnomes who looked at each other and shrugged.

“Great. I guess we just search them from one side to the other and hope for the best-”

“Wait! Dipper! Shh.” Mabel’s hand covered his mouth. “Listen.”

“Is that… &ndra?” Dipper asked as the tune to _Taking Over Midnight_ lilted through the cavern.

“YES!” Mabel grabbed handfuls of Dipper’s coat and shook him. “It’s Grunkle Stan’s ringtone!”

“What? Why?” Wendy’s hat tipped to the side as Dipper rubbed his head.

“He wanted _Luck Be a Lady_ but _I_ know he needs something more… current. Come on! I think it’s coming from down here!” Mabel tugged her brother’s sleeve, dragging him to the far left tunnel.

****

Stan awoke to the sound of a woman’s voice belting out a familiar tune from his coat pocket. He opened his eyes and could only manage one response to his current situation, “Oh you have got to be kidding me.” 


	5. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan finds himself in a sticky situation while a trip into some not-so-pleasant memories causes Fiddleford to experience some after effects of erasing parts of his mind.
> 
> Mostly a lighter chapter with some fluff :). I guess you could say it's a little... sappy...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK so this fic is way longer than I thought it was going to be...  
> It's cute how it was originally going to be a drabble piece. O_o
> 
> Special thanks again to themadcapmathematician.tumblr.com, winterjameson.tumblr.com, and theunknownerrorvirus.tumblr.com for helping me pick a ringtone for Stan's phone. And thanks also to usually-confused.tumblr.com for helping me develop ideas and beta reading parts!
> 
> Disclaimer: This by no means reflects the feelings, emotions, or views of all asexuals. Besides the fact that asexuality is a spectrum, everyone is different and holds their own combination of desires, perspectives, and feelings. This is just one of countless combinations of those.

_Oh-oh Girls do what we like_

Stan moaned, the sound cutting through his head like a miter saw through a two-by-four.

_Oh-Oh We’re taking over tonight_

His coat pocket vibrated along to the ringtone Mabel had set for him. _“One of these days I’ll figure out how to change that,”_ he thought, wincing at the bubbly voice.

_We’re queens of the Disco!_

His eyelids fluttered open with a groan.  He commanded his arm to move but it wouldn’t budge.  Blinking, he tried to lift his head, though he felt more like he was trying to lower it.  It too failed to move.  His eyes focused in the dim yellow light and he realized he was looking down at a moss blanketed cavern floor.  Glowing mushrooms formed steps up the rocky wall, their light glimmering in a thin stream of water which trickled from a dark crevasse to his left.  In a moment of panic he attempted to move his arms and legs again but it was as if he had been super glued to the cave’s arched ceiling.

_Oh-oh Girls do what we like_

He noticed a sparkle of light forming below him.  As he scanned the stalactites and stalagmites, more droplets of glistening yellow and amber caught his attention.  He managed to shift his eyes to one side enough to see gooey sap plastering his sheepskin coat's sleeve in place. “Oh.”

_Oh-Oh we’re taking over tonight_

“You have got to be kidding me.”  He huffed as he realized he was stuck in a gob of sap like a fly on flypaper, limbs spread uncomfortably.

_Taking over tonight!_

With a series of growls and grunts, he managed to free his right arm from his coat sleeve.  He shoved his hand into his pocket and retrieved his phone but the song cut off before he could answer.  He squinted at the screen.

 _Poindexter_  
_Missed Call_

****

Ford’s expression darkened with each ring.  His stomach felt as though it dropped to his feet as the familiar voicemail message played.

 _“Is this thing on? What do I say again?”_  Stan's throaty voice fizzed through the speaker.  

_“Grunkle Stan, say something like… oh just give me that.  Hi!  You've reached-”_

He hung up before Mabel’s message finished, the phone gripped between both shaking hands.

“No answer?”  Fiddleford asked, if only to cut the uncomfortable waves of worry radiating from the silver-haired man.

He shook his head.

“Try again?”

“Yes. Yes Of course.”  Ford nearly dropped the phone as a catchy, upbeat tune blared through it.  
  
_C'mon baby won't you fly away with me_

Fiddleford’s eyes lit up as the five voices of Sev’ral Timez harmonized to the lyrics of  _It’ll Be This Way Forever_.  His hand flew up to shelter his eyes as the blinding LED light flickered through Ford’s fingers like a strobe light while he fumbled to catch the phone and turn it right side up.  
  
_Take my hand it's destiny_

Ford’s smile stretched his cheeks as he looked at the screen.  
  
_Incoming Call_  
_Stanley “One Punch” Pines_

****

Stan hummed his ringtone to himself as he waited for his call to connect. _Ugh darn catchy song. Gonna be stuck in my head for a week now._ After three rings and a slight fizz of static, his brother’s panicked voice rambled into his ear.  “Stan?!  Stanley are you there?  Where are you?!  Are you alright?  Are you hurt?”

Stan’s face scrunched as the blurted questions echoed through his thumping head.  “Whoa calm down. Don’t give yourself a heart attack,” he answered.

“STANLEY!”  Ford’s tone floated joyfully through the speaker.  “You’re alive!  Are you hurt?  Where are you?  Wait, how do I know you’re not 210 using Stan’s voice?”

“210?  What are you babbling about?  Anyway I uh… well I guess you could say I’m in a bit of a sticky situation.”  Stan laughed dryly.

“Oh no…”  Stan could practically see his brother pinching his nose, waiting for the punchline.

“It’s funny ‘cause I’m literally glued to the ceiling of a cave right now.”

“Stan!  It is you!  Don’t worry, we have a plan.  Dipper and Mabel are searching for you as we speak.  Fiddleford and I are going to figure out a way to contain the shape shifter again.”

“Is that what that thing was?”

“Yes, I don’t know exactly how yet, but it escaped from cryogenic stasis.”

“Yeah well, I ain’t gonna hang around here waiting.  My own pants are giving me the wedgie of a lifetime right now and the three sodas I had this afternoon are catching up to me.  So uh, I got my own plan, okay?  You do your thing.  I’ll do mine.  See ya’ in a bit!”

“No wait Stan, don’t hang up!”

“Gotta.  And don’t call back!  I don’t need ya drawin’ attention to me if that thing is still out there somwhere.”  Stan tapped the end call button and temporarily stuffed the phone into his pants pocket.  In a spectacle of twisting and contorting, he wrestled his other arm free from his coat.  With both arms liberated, he was able to tug his pony tail out of the goo behind his head, though it stuck instantly in a gob against the cream colored fisherman's sweater Mabel made for him.  “Great,” he mumbled, “Bad enough this dumb goop ruined my warmest coat, now how am I going to explain this mess to Mabel.  Argh!  That coat was expensive too!”  A glob of sap dripped onto his head, oozing down the side of his face into a sticky mess in his beard.  He looked up as if he wanted to shake his fist at the source, a crack in the cavern above a row of dripping stalactites.  Rather than cursing out an inanimate cave feature, he leaned away from a second sloppy dribble and set to work on his plan.

It took a good amount of fumbling but he managed to unbuckle his belt and unbutton his pants.   _“Alright, you can do this, Stan…”_    He thought to himself, feeling a little dizzy as he looked down at the column of mushrooms clinging to the wall, decreasing in size and luminosity as they stretched to the cavern floor.  Using the heel of his left foot, he kicked off his right shoe.  A wave of nausea prevented him from watching it tumble to the ground with a clomp.  He took advantage of the hole in his dingy sock, using his exposed toe to peel off the other shoe.  Holding his breath, he pulled at the front of his coat, lifting himself out of his helplessly glued pants.

He hung from the hem of his coat, bare legs dangling in the damp cavern air.   _“Great… Didn’t think this part through too well, did ya…”_

_Oh-oh Girls do what we like…_

Stans eyebrows flattened in annoyance. _“Ugh, I thought I told that nerd not to call back!”_

_Oh-oh We’re taking over tonight_

He reached into his pants pocket and retrieved his phone.  Dangling from one arm, hand clutching the waistband of his pants, he squinted at the screen.

_Incoming call  
Mabel._

“Oh.”

He swiped the screen with his thumb.

“Hey there Pumpkin… this uh- isn’t the best time.”

“Grunkle Stan!  You’re okay!” She squeaked.

“Um.  Sure.  We’ll call this okay.”  He would have shrugged if he could have. “Everything is relative I guess.  Hey look, can I call you back when I’m slightly more okay-”

“Wait!  We were following the sound of your phone to find you.  But now, maybe you could just yell or something.”

“Uh ok sure."  Except he wasn't sure.  He'd just finished telling his brother not to call him back to avoid making noise and now he was seriously considering making more.  But if the kids were close enough to hear his phone, maybe they would get to him before whatever that thing was.  It was worth a shot at least.  “I think I can manage a pretty convincing scream or two right now...  But uh, feel free to do the phone thing too In case I uh-”  He didn't want to finish that thought but worst case scenarios played through his head anyway.   _In case I fall.  In case I pass out.  In case whatever that thing was hears the ruckus and comes back._    He decided to go with a simple, “In case something goes wrong.  You know, if I stop making noise or something.”  
  
“Alright, will do.”    
  
“Hey, I don’t suppose you have that grappling hook with you, huh?  ‘Cause uh… We’re gonna need it.”

“Sure do! We’ll find you soon.  Just hang in there!”  Mabel hung up.

“Yeah uh…   Not like I  have a choice right now.”  Stan muttered, glancing down at his dangling feet.  He slipped the phone into the pocket of his green striped boxers and clung to his pants with both fists.  He cleared his throat and let out a raspy yell. 

****

The light from Ford’s phone flitted across the gravely bunker floor as he neared the round hatch set into the wall and hidden behind a map of Gravity Falls-  Or at least the space where it should have been.  From the mangled scrap of once-rounded metal lying at his feet he suspected 210 must have done some redecorating.  He held the light up to find the map missing and a gap three times the size of the original passage torn into the wall, the metal lying in busted scraps lining the floor.

“Welp, that’s not a good sign.”  He shone the light through the tunnel finding nothing other than claw-scrapped walls, mangled metal, and piles of something which, from the putrid smell, he’d rather not identify.  He signaled Fiddleford to follow him and stepped cautiously forward.

“So uh… that song your phone-a-ma-jig-box plays…” Fiddleford broke the nerve-prickling silence.

“Ah, Yes. Mabel picked it,” Ford chuckled.

“Oh.”  He tried not to sound disappointed.

“I was going to ask her to change it but it sort of grew on me.  Quite catchy, really.”

Fiddleford grinned. “It really is! Sev’ral Timez is sort of a guilty pleasure ‘a mine. I got kinda hooked on their music myself when my memory was all wonkified.  I even went to their concert when they were in town.”

“That must have been fun. Music is rather splendid when it’s live, albeit a little loud,” Ford waved the light across the security room’s floor, searching for the tile which would activate the crushing trap.

“Ya think the power is out through the whole lab?”  Fiddleford asked, dreading the thought of trying to remember which buttons to press to gain entry to the lab before being squished into a puddle.

The light slid across the floor and stopped, illuminating the trigger tile.  “I don’t know. But if it is, we're going to have to figure out a way to get through the-.”  He lifted his phone, the light flashing over a hollow space where the lab door should have been.  "Oh.  Well I guess that solves that problem."   

“Heh remember the first time we came down here after activitin' this room?”  Fiddleford laughed, lifting his leg to take a long step over the trigger tile.

“Yes!  We nearly missed the last button and got ourselves squished.”  With a snicker the silver-haired scientist squared his shoulders to impersonate his younger self.  He quoted what he had said after their near death experience,  “Whose dumb idea was it to build a room like that?”

Fiddleford straightened his back, mocking his younger self,  “Well I don’t rightly know!  But what idiot do ya think he got to build it for him?”  
  
“Ha ha, not our brightest idea was it, Fidds?”  The old nickname slipped out as if he'd never stopped using it.  “Oh my...  I- I'm sor-”  
  
“Stanford Pines, don't you dare apologize for something again," Fiddleford lifted a finger and gave Ford an over exaggerated scowl, the same face he used to make when telling him to eat something proper for once or to stop falling asleep over his books and use an actual bed.  His face relaxed into a gentle smile.   “You don't have to be sorry.  It's fine.  You always used ta call me that.  Why stop now?”  
  
“You don't mind?  After all these years and everything I-”  
  
“I said no more apologizing.  I liked that you called me that.  I imagine it must be the same as how you tell everyone ta just call ya Ford.”  

Fiddleford had out-logic-ed him.  All he could manage in response was, “Yes I suppose you have a point.”  With a contented sigh, he set back to examining the security room.  He scanned the room beyond the claw marred door frame with the flashlight finding no sign of life within the mangled debris.  He reached for the light switch and flicked it, hoping for the best.  Half of the lights strobed and steadied into a slight vibrating flicker.  The other half refused to function.  His finger prodded his phone to turn the light off before he slipped it into his pocket.

“Wow.  This place is a wreck.  210 was furious this time,” Ford's voice was breathy as he examined the toppled and smashed super computers and the shattered monitors.  The decontamination shower had been torn apart, leaving a gaping hole in the wall.  “My guess is the cryogenic containment units are not going to be an option unless you can repair them in record time, eh, old buddy?”

Fiddleford didn’t answer.

“Fiddleford?” He turned to find the long-bearded man looking much like he had the first time Ford showed him the alien spacecraft buried below the town.  His face was pale and his eyes wide and unfocused.      
  
Strings of thought tangled into knots in the inventor's mind.  Memories of being smashed against the consoles by a creature who was and was not Ford flickered and disappeared.  A flash of light across the blade of a machete as it lowered toward his throat blinked and faded.  He grasped at memories trying to hold on but they floated out of reach, burning into nothingness at the edges of his mind.  Everything was blank.  He blinked and looked up at a stranger who seemed panicked about his well-being.       

“Huh?  Yes?  Hello?”  He squinted through his green tinted lenses trying to figure out why the owl-eyed man seemed to know him.

“Fiddleford, what’s wrong?!”

“Oh hi tha’re! Do we know each other?” He tilted his head quizzically.

Ford froze. _Not again. No!_

“You seem familiar but I just can’t put my finger on it.”

_Wait… Of course… It’s just like Stan’s memory lapses… Right?  Just an after effect of the memory gun…  Right?_

“Aw we do know each other don’t we?”  The bow-legged man scratched the back of his head.  “Aw, donkey-spittle. I been forgettin’ a lot lately.”

Ford knelt in front of him, his hands draped over his knees.  “Can you remember your name?”

“Yeppers!  It’s Fiddleford Hadron McGucket!”  
  
_“It's not all gone!  Thank goodness!”_  Ford thought.    
  
“Pleased to be makin’ yer acquaintance.”  Fiddleford held out his hand.  “Yer a handsome fella… Who are you ag’in?”

Ford could feel his cheeks burning as he answered in more of a stutter than he’d hoped for, “S-Stanford Pines.”  He reached out with some trepidation, wondering if a six fingered hand shake would jar any memories or if it would be like every other time he’d shaken hands with someone new.

To his relief and dismay, Fiddleford didn’t mention it.  He treated it like any other handshake, yet remembered nothing.  
  
“We- uh…  We worked together a long time ago,” he explained but no spark of memory seemed to surface.  He decided to try to jog a memory from sometime after he’d erased his mind. “Ok um… Do you remember a couple of kids?  Dipper and Mabel?”

“Ah yeah!  Sure do.  They found my old laptop and helped me get my memories back…  My memories…”

 _It’s working!_   Ford scanned his thoughts for another idea. _If only I had my old photos of us…  What else is good for brining back memories…_   He suddenly remembered a night on the Stan O’ War II when Stan had a particularly bad episode and the photo album wasn’t helping.  He’d called Dipper and Mabel for help and they’d played a song they claimed they sang with him to defeat a horde of zombies.  It jarred his memories within the first few lines.

Starting faintly, he hummed the tune to It’ll Be This Way Forever.

An off tune caterwaul answered him, “ _Look into my big blue eyes…_ ”  His voice was cut by a cough.  “Mighty sorry ‘bout that. I’m a terrib-ab-al singer. But that song’s awfully catchy.  I was always better playing this.”  He patted the strap to his banjo.

_Almost…  It almost worked. Maybe that was too recent. Something older… Ah!_

“Yes of course.  You always were quite skilled with it.  Do you mind if I borrow it for a second?”  He pointed to the banjo slung over Fiddleford’s shoulder.

“Hmm…  I don’t normally…  but you seem like an okay kinda guy so…  sure.”  He slung it over his head and passed it to Ford, readjusting his tipped hat.

After a few sour plucks, Ford remembered how to play the song Fiddleford had taught him, a lightly strummed tune of his own composition.  The upbeat notes bounced off of crumpled metal and stone, filling the room with the tune Ford had hummed to himself for nearly forty years.

Fiddleford knelt beside him, reaching out for his banjo.  “How do you know that one? I wrote it a long time ago…”  His eyes widened as the sharp odor of formaldehyde and sweet scent of cinnamon radiated from the man he knew he should remember. It shook an old memory loose from the tangle in his mind.   _Ha.  Nothing like raising the dead,_ he thought as he recalled frantically mixing up the cure for zombification in the lab under Ford’s house while the door rattled above. _Good thing we figured out the right mix before they bit him.  Heh… singing together was fun though. Bohemian Rhapsody… good choice.  Just not for my sour yowling…  Poor Dan! He was flat out done with us after that!_

“Stanford Filbrick Pines,” he finally said, sniffling at the air and grinning widely.  “Ha! That smell never did wash off did it?”

“Oh my…” his cheeks burned again, knowing full-well what smell Fiddleford was referring to; the smell of another mistake.  Granted, that one at least proved funny in retrospect.  Although, it hadn’t been easy trying to hide the distinct scent from bounty hunters over the years.  It took more than both six-fingered hands to count how many times he heard the phrase _“we could smell you a mile away”_ in various alien languages.  He sometimes wondered how many of those times referred to that particular odor and how many referred to lacking the luxury of showering for weeks on end.  “I suppose not. Though a long shower dulls it temporarily and um… not bathing for a fair amount of time covers it over with something entirely different…” he snickered, triggering Fiddleford’s contagious laughter.    
  
Ford helped Fiddleford back to his feet.  They climbed over twisted scraps of metal, glass crunching beneath their shoes.  Ford steadied himself with a sharp intake of stale air and peered through the busted decontamination shower and into the cryogenic containment lab.    
  
The room beyond was nearly unrecognizable in the flickering of blue light and yellow sparks.  Tubes hung from the ceiling sending out bursts of lightning from the cords within.  The cryogenic chambers laid in ruins, toppled and shattered.  The stairs leading to the platform which once housed the largest of the chambers had been reduced to a pile of busted concrete.  What remained of the rail jutted from it like spikes.  Claw marks and burrows covered the walls and floor.  
  
“Oh no.”  Fiddleford covered his mouth in awe.    
  
Ford shook his head, his tone desperate as he wondered aloud, “What do we do now?”  


	6. Real or Dream?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan's situation escalates from "this was a bad plan" to "Oh no. Not the kids!" Ford and Fiddleford examine what's left of the cryogenic containment lab and Ford is faced with a nightmare brought to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back and fixed a few details in the earlier chapters. It's nothing that alters the story in any way, just some background/environmental errors. This story has gotten away on me a little! I didn't expect it to take this direction. The next part is going to be exciting! 
> 
> [There's an illutration here if anyone is interested.](http://skillfulstudio.tumblr.com/post/145734594363/here-have-a-quick-sketch-to-go-with-tonights)
> 
> ~Everything the shape shifter says to Ford is what it thinks will hurt him. It does not reflect Stan's thoughts or even what Ford thinks or fears. 
> 
> Thanks again to usually-confused.tumblr.com for reading over this for me and bouncing ideas around with me!

The cavern air was thick and heavy, like an August afternoon after a summer squall.  The sticky sap gluing Stan's pony tail to his sweater melted sluggishly down his back.  Sweat beaded across his forehead and dripped into his eyes as he clung to the waistband of his pants.  His head pounded as he continued yelling anything that came to mind to help the kids find him.  He released one hand's grip to wipe his brow.  Yeesh, I thought it was winter, why is it so hot in here?  He wondered.   _Maybe it's just me._  He _did_ feel rather nauseated and dizzy and he _had_ been knocked out for an indeterminate amount of time.     
  
His random yells spiked and his heart nearly stopped as his body slipped toward the ground.  The sticky sap wasn't so sticky once all of his weight was hanging from his pants.  They peeled downward, strings of the amber goo thinning as gravity gained the upper hand.  His voice fell silent as he reached for his coat in a scramble of attempted self-preservation.  The Pines family karaoke night theme song blared through his boxers sounding nearly as panicked as he felt.  His pulse thumped faster than the beat of the tune trumpeting in his pocket.  His hand closed the gap between the hem of his coat and his dangling body but a powerful gale nearly blew him back into the gooey sap again.  The wind flapped, growing stronger and stronger as he turned.

“Holy hot cakes, what now-”  The corners of his lips drooped and his eyes widened as a moth almost as large as the pterodactyl that assaulted him earlier loomed closer.

“What is all of this noise?  What do you think you’re doing?  I was just about to say hi to your little family and you ruined everything!”  The moth growled, glossy black eyes reflecting Stan’s horrified expression back at him.

He lifted his hanging jaw into a snarky smirk.  “Oh really?  Then I guess I didn't need to worry about Poindexter calling me back.  If I'd 'a known, I'd 'a made more noise sooner!” he spat at the creature, trying not to flinch as it shifted to the form of a hairy brown spider twice his size.  “Really? A giant spider?  That’s the most creative thing you could come up with?  This is ridicul-Aah!  Hey put me down!”

Two prickly limbs lifted him by the back of his sweater, shaking him and tugging at him until his hands released his coat.

“Where is that horrendous noise coming from?”  A third bristly limb reached into his pocket, searching for the source of the pop hit.

“Hey hey!  Don’t get fresh with me!  I may not have a problem with Ford’s siren buddies but this is a little beyond my comfort zone!”  He batted fruitlessly at the third limb as it extracted the phone from his pocket.

“What is this? Some sort of communication device?”  The spider’s multiple eyes flashed at him as its slobbery snarl spat into his face.

“What?!  That?  Naw.  It’s a uh… radio.  I was just listening to some…”  The spider threw the phone to the ground.  The clatter and crunch and sudden silence shook through Stan as if it had been him that dropped.  “Hey! That was expensive!  You gonna pony up and buy me a new one?!  Hey hey!  Watch it!  Watch the hair!”  Stan protested as the spider flipped him backwards and up, his sweater sticking to the goo, trapping him again.  “Oh come on!  I just…  You know my niece made this sweater for me, right?!  When she gets here and sees this, she’s gonna throttle you!”

The spider shifted to Mabel’s form, still clinging to the ceiling as if its shoes where glued in place.  “Aw don't worry,” it said in her voice, dripping in a malicious cadence Stan never imagined it could produce.  “I'll make sure she won't have the chance.”  

It felt as if a bullet struck Stan’s heart as it shifted to a likeness of him, fully clothed in his brown sheepskin coat, fisherman’s sweater, and faded black pants.    
  
“You think that's gonna fool them?  Mabel!  Dipper!”  he shouted.

In a flicker, the creature shifted back to the spider's form and shot a string of sticky webbing toward his face.  It caught in his beard reducing his warning to muffled, nearly muted gibberish.  With a hiss-like laugh, the shape shifter scuttled down the wall.   In another unnatural swirl, a twist in reality, it shrank back into to Stan’s form.  It leaned down and gathered the remnants of his phone and dropped them into its coat pocket.  “Don’t worry, I’ll be back with some company for you soon!”

Stan wanted to spit fire or acid or both at the same time.  How dare it use his form and his voice to...  to....  Then it hit him.   _Oh no… The kids… KIDS!_  He tried to scream again but the creature shouted over him, “Kids!  I'm alright!  Where are you?”

He could hear Dipper's answer, quiet and distant, screaming his name, “Grunkle Stan!  Where are you?!  What happened!”   
  
Stan's voice clawed at his throat, struggling to escape with the same fervor as his limbs as he watched the creature turn toward a narrow tunnel.  The shape shifter continued yelling over him, “Kids!  I'm alright.  I'm over here!”  The creature disappeared into the darkness, following and answering the kids concerned calls. 

****  
  
The shape shifter ducked and crawled its way through the dark, uphill tunnel, keeping Stan's form purely for the sake of using his voice.  It wanted to scream and rage and rampage.  It wanted to shift into every destructive form it knew and tear the passage wide open with claws, pincers, fangs, anything.  Its targets, all those years ago, should have been easy prey; two nerdy scientists looking for anomalies that it could trick into fawning over a baby form of itself, telling it their life stories and sharing their secrets until the time was right.  A beast of unfathomable horror should not have been bested by two weakling humans, frozen and trapped underground for nearly thirty years, then frozen again by a couple of kids that turned out to be _related_ to one of them.  It had had enough of that loathsome family starving it for decades.  Eating rats and bugs and beans was no way to sustain itself.  Human fear, guilt, shame, grief, betrayal - those were the closest things to a real feast it could get on this miserable planet.  It would tear every one of them down to their rawest emotions and gorge on the tenderized, artfully seasoned remains.        
  
But to do that, it needed to remain calm.  Altering its plan would take more patience and thought than altering its form.  Still, it fumed over its bait regaining consciousness and being a general nuisance, over losing its chance to split up the search party itself, to corner each victim alone and feed off their fear and confusion.  Its rage burned over having no clue where to find the two scientists, over having to be civil to its prey to find out.  It quelled the burning desire to destroy, satisfied by the thought of cornering its two original captors, of using any means necessary to unravel their sanity.  It rolled its human-shaped shoulders back with a crack, fresh determination flowing through every vein and artery.    
  
****  
  
“Oh man oh man.  Hang on Grunkle Stan, we're coming!”  Dipper's heart raced as fast as his feet as he skidded through an arched tunnel of striated rock streaked in long furrows carved by massive claws.  Their great uncle had stopped yelling signals to them and his phone's ringtone had gone silent.    
  
Dipper and Mabel trotted ahead of the gnomes into another intersection of tunnels.  The stone floor no longer allowed them to follow tracks and every tunnel radiating from the intersection had been marred with fresh claw marks.  “Maybe we should have asked McGucket to stay with us, he could have tracked them down by now,” Mabel said, panicked.   
  
“Kids!  I'm alright!  Where are you?”  The familiar gruff voice echoed through a narrow tunnel to their right.    
  
“He's alive!”  Mabel jumped up and down, her pony tail flipping into the air and patting against her back.  
  
“I think it came from this one,” Dipper pointed to the dark burrow, dug below two others.  He cupped his hands beside his mouth and yelled into the tunnel, “Grunkle Stan!  Where are you?!  What happened!”   

“Kids!  I'm alright.  I'm over here!” 

“It definitely came from down here.  Come on let's go!"  
  
“Oh sure, it has to be the most terrifying looking one, doesn't it?”  Jeff huffed.    
  
“Wait!  What if it's the shape shifter?!”  Mabel tugged at Dippers coat.  
  
“Kids!”  The gruff voice echoed and spiraled toward them.    
  
“We'll have to deal with that when we get there.  For right now, this is the best lead we have.  Come on guys.  Let's go!”  Dipper led the way, the light from his phone flickering across deep gouges carved in the rounded walls.  The dim light caught a figure in the distance, fumbling his way through the tunnel.    
  
“Grunkle Stan!  You're alright!”  Mabel shouted, sliding down a slope toward him.  “We were so worried!  Your phone stopped ringing then we heard weird noises!  We thought the shape shifter got you again!  Wait!  Are you the shape shifter?”  She pursed her lips, eyes crossed as she examined his barely visible form, shining her phone over his face and into his eyes.  
  
“Ack!  It's me kid, I swear.  Look, it did find me but I punched it in the face and got away.  Except, I dropped this when it attacked,” it pulled the broken pieces of Stan's phone from its pocket.   
  
Dipper squinted, still uncertain if the man leaning over them, hunched to avoid hitting his head, was really their Grunkle Stan.  “You could have taken that from the real Stan...  How do we know it's really you?”   
  
The shape shifter let out a growling sigh, “My name is Stanley Pines.  I grew up in Glass Shard Beach where my brother and I were building a boat called the Stan O' War until he wanted to go off to this fancy college-”  
  
“Oh come on, Grunkle Ford could have told you that if you really are 210...”  Dipper crossed his arms, unimpressed.    
  
“OK...” it grunted, annoyed at the delay then pointed to Mabel, “Um.  Okay.  Would I know that you made this sweater for me?”

“Grunkle Stan!”  Mabel shouted, satisfied with the look-alike's answer.  She poked at the remains of the real Stan's phone, cradled in the impostor's hands.  “Sorry about your phone.  But as long as it was just that and not you, everything will be okay!” 

“Aw I'm just glad to see you kids again,” the disguised creature patted their heads.  “So uh, where's my brother and his weird friend anyway?  How come they're not with you?”  
  
“They went to the lab to get the cryogenic chambers ready to freeze the shape shifter again.”  Dipper explained.  
  
“Oh well we'd better go find them before that thing does then,” the false Stan said, grinning to itself, “Or before it finds us.”     
  
“We're _supposed_ to find it though,” Dipper explained.  “We promised we'd find you then lure the shape shifter to the lab.”

“But now we don't know where the shape shifter went,” Mabel added, staring at her shuffling feet.    
  
“Well when I punched that thing in the face, it slithered off down that way somewhere.”  The Stan impostor wagged its thumb over its shoulder, pointing deeper into the dark passage leading to the cavern oozing in sticky sap.    
  
“I guess at this point, that's as good a direction as any,” Dipper said with a shrug.  Mabel and the gnomes muttered in agreement, mimicking Dipper's shrug to each other.   
  
The younger twins lead the way through the narrow tunnel, bending and crawling to fit through the tight mid-section and sliding down steep slopes.  It opened ahead of them into a dimly glowing cavern, lush in moss and prehistoric ferns.  A hot spring bubbled up beside them, sending steam into the cave, giving it the same damp warmth as the Mystery Shack's bathroom after a hot shower.  
  
A muffled voice caught their attention.  Their heads snapped up, searching for the source.    
  
“Grunkle St-?!” they shouted in unison, their voices cut out as strong arms wrapped around them from behind.    
  
Raw fear shot through the teen twins as the creature's grip on them tightened, nearly crushing them.  The limbs around them bulged, brown hair sprouting forth and coating them.  The form of their Grunkle Stan shifted to that of a manotaur, keeping its deadly grip on the twins.  With a flick of its thick, hairy wrists, the kids screamed and hurled through the air, landing in the sticky mess beside a struggling Stan.    
  
“Ack.  Oh not this stuff again!  It took me forever to get it out of my hair before!”  Mabel tried to move but her quilted coat was as stuck as Stan's sweater.    
  
“Oh man!  What do we do now?”  Dipper squirmed, trying to free his limbs with no luck.  “Wait...  What happened to you, Grunkle Stan?”  He questioned, taking in the sight of his great uncle, clad in his underwear and hanging by his sweater in the goo beside them.    
  
Stan mumbled an unintelligible response through the webbing plastered across his face.    
  
“Dipper look!”  Mabel shifted her eyes downward to the gnomes, watching hopefully as they charged against a centipede shaped creature.   
  
The creature shifted to the form of the gnome giant, matching its opponent.  With a great swing of its arm, it sent ten gnomes scattering up into the sticky goo.  It's hand swiped at the giant again, dislodging  Shmebulock, Carson, Steve, and five others and sending them tumbling into the wall of sap.  With every swing, it whittled the gnome giant down in size.  In mere moments, the tiny, red hatted men speckled the cave wall and ceiling like bugs on a bumper.    
  
The false giant shrank back to Stan's form.  With a menacing laugh Stan didn't know his voice was capable of, it gloated, “I'd love to spend more time with you but I've got some unfinished business with a couple of nerds that needs attending to.  You guys can just stick around until I get back!”  
  
Stan glowered, mumbling an indecipherable response.  If anyone could have understood him, they would have heard him spit out, “How dare he take my form  _and_  make a joke like that?”  
  
“Oh no.  We gotta figure out a way out of this mess and get to Grunkle Ford and McGucket before it does!”  Dipper panicked.     
  
****  
      
Ford and Fiddleford sifted through the rubble in what was once their cryogenic containment lab.  The lights flickered every so often, flashing across mangled steel and shattered glass.  Sparks drifted downward from a broken tube of live wires, fizzing and cracking, tinting the stale air with smoke.      
  
“Yeah, there's no fixin' this.”  Fiddleford tipped his hat up and shook his head, prodding at the shattered glass from the largest containment unit with a rusty piece of the old stair rail.  “The energy core is frazzil-matized.  We'd need to get another one from that alien ship.” 

Ford adjusted Fiddleford's scarf around his neck, and sighed, “Well that explains how it escaped again.”  He lifted himself to his feet and brushed his hands together, smearing dirt and oil between his palms.  With a wrinkle of his nose, he wiped them on the sides of his lab coat, streaking fresh stains across the faded tapestry of decades old ones.     
  
“Even if the core wasn't dead as a possum under a tractor tire, this is so busted up we'd have ta' start from scratch and use what's here as parts.”  The bearded engineer stared at the twisted face of a control panel gripped between his hands.  
  
“So what now then?  I'd call the kids to tell them but Stan had a good point.  I don't want to draw attention to them.”  Ford's fingers ruffled through the white hair striped across the back of his head.        
  
“Ya' might have ta risk-” Fiddleford's reply stopped short at the sound of a familiar voice.  
  
“Stanford!  Stanford are you around here somewhere?!”  The gravely words echoed through a wide tunnel behind them.  
  
“Stanley?  Stanley!  Yes over here!”  Ford answered, climbing over crumpled metal and busted concrete toward the sound of his brother's voice.    
  
Stan's impersonator stumbled out of the darkness and bent over huffing for breath.    
  
Fiddleford scampered over the hilly remains of their old project with ease, the experience of years hunting for scraps in any place he could find them planting his feet in sturdy stances and guiding his hands to the next object wedged or secured safely enough to pull himself up over the next pile.  He hopped onto a piece of bowed metal and slid down a shallow slope, spinning to a halt near Ford's feet.  
  
“I take it your plan worked?  Did you see the kids anywhere?  Are they alright?!”  Ford rambled as Fiddleford stood and tossed the sheet of metal aside with a loud clatter.  It bounced into the rubble and came to rest with a final clank.    
  
“No I haven't seen them,” it shook its head.      
  
“Wait...”  Ford squinted at the false Stan, eliciting an incredulous rise of its eyebrow.  “How do I know you're not 210?”  
  
Fiddleford mimicked Ford's squint, adjusting his green tinted glasses.  

“Aw come on, it's me!”  The shape shifter took a step back under their glares, “Look, if the kids are still down here somewhere, shouldn't we try to find 'em before something else does?”  The creature suggested, prodding for information, calculating what it could say without revealing itself. 

“...I would say yes but they know we're here.  If we leave, we could lose each other in the tunnels down here,” Ford sighed, staring at his phone.  “I think you're right, Fiddleford.  I might have to call them or send them a message at least.  Maybe they turned the sound off on their phones.  I just...  don't want them in danger.  We should have discussed this before splitting up.”    
  
“Do they even know where here is?” the creature asked.  
  
“Yes...  and no.”  Ford's shoulders sagged.  “They've been here before but I'm not sure if they know how to find it through all of that mess.”  His hand waved toward the burrows and caverns spotting the walls like holes in a sponge.  
  
The creature rubbed its temples with an exasperated curl of its lip.  “You know, this...  This is so like you.  You just...  You're supposed to be some kind of genius but sometimes you just don't think.  Why did you let the kids run off on their own?  How did you think that was a good idea?”  
  
“Stanley, I-”   
  
“No.  For all we know they could be dead right now and it would be all your fault.  You've always been like this when it comes to your monsters and projects though.  You throw aside everything else and dive in and don't care who gets hurt!”  The shape shifter's hand cut the air drawing a faint flinch from the owl-eyed scientist.    
  
“Ford...”  Fiddleford tugged at the stunned man's coat sleeve.    
  
“I-I tried to stop them,” he stuttered, his phone strangled between both hands.  
  
“Oh sure, you _tried_ to stop them, just like you _tried_  to stop dad when he kicked me out?!”  The creature stepped forward, fists balled at its sides, struggling to keep its scowl from lifting to a grin.  
  
Ford wanted to fight back, to tell him how angry he was then, how even if he wasn't, he would have been no match for their father, that he would have been too scared to stand up when even their mother knew better.  But he bit his lip, holding it in.   _No.  I don't want to fight anymore.  This is supposed to be our fresh start._  
  
“Just like you _tried_ to keep in touch for all those years?”  
  
“That's enough!  Lay off, will ya!”  Fiddleford slid between them, his arm extended protectively in front of Ford, eyes glaring up from under his hat.  “He really did try to stop them but they went ahead on their own anyway.  This was the best plan we had at the time.  Maybe it wasn't perfect but...  but we had ta do something.”   
  
The Stan-shaped creature pushed Fiddleford aside with one arm, leaning in, seemingly looming over Ford without altering its stature.  “You tossed them aside just like you did to me, didn't you?”  
  
“I...  I thought...  You said...  Stanley I said I was sorry.  And I am...”  He stepped back, _Stan wouldn't do this_ , his brain struggled to shove the thought to the forefront, through the clog of old memories and guilt.    
  
“Sorry?  Sorry!  Sorry won't bring them back if something happened to them!  Sorry doesn't fix that one of your mistakes came back to bite _me_!”

“Y-you're not Stan...” he muttered, trying to convince himself.  The phone slid from Ford's hands, clattering to the stone floor, the screen cracking on impact.   
  
****  
  
Stan groaned and grunted as his right arm squirmed its way out of his sweater sleeve.  He reached up through the collar and grabbed hold of the webbing clinging to his beard.  The wad of strands protested, ripping at the hairs like an overly sticky bandage.  His hand snapped forward as it broke their grip.  “Ahh!  Sheesh that smarts!”  He shook his hand but the webbing wrapped even tighter around it, threading between his fingers.  His eyebrows flattened with his exasperated snort.    
  
“Grunkle Stan, where are your pants?”  Mabel questioned, lifting her voice to speak over the murmured complaints and grumbles of the gnomes trying to tug their limbs free.    
  
“Um, long story short, I had a brilliant idea that turned out to be not so brilliant.  I uh...  might be slightly concussed right now.”  He nearly rubbed his head but lowered his hand as he caught a glimpse of the webbing still wrapped around it out of the corner of his eye.  With a sigh he turned to Mabel, his ponytail catching in the goo and stopping him short.  “Hey, pumpkin?  You still got that grappling hook of yours?” 

“Sure do!”  She wiggled her arm out of her coat sleeve, reached into her pocket, and pulled it out of seemingly nowhere.    
  
“OK hold on to it for a minute.  You think you can reach Dipper's hand?” His eyes strained to see where his nephew had landed.  
  
“Maybe,”  She reached out, feeling the tips of his fingers almost close enough to grab.    
  
“Alright, I think I might have a plan.  This stuff isn't as sticky as it seems.”  He grunted again pulling at his left arm.     
  
“Oh yeah, that hot spring down there must be keeping it pliant,” Dipper muttered to himself, thinking he should remember to add this to the new journal he and Ford had started.  “Like how the summer heat melted the pterodactyl out of it when it took Waddles.”   
  
“Yeah, somethin' like that I guess,” Stan said as his left arm jerked free from his sweater sleeve.  “Gah!” he yelled, his torso slipping through the sweater, the goo yanking on his ponytail until the last strings of amber released it.  His hands flailed to grasp his sweater's hem.  Shaking, he took a moment to regain his breath and let the world stop swirling around him.  He closed his eyes to steady himself, refusing to look down, then reopened them with his focus on Mabel.  “Okay sweetie, can you pass it to me now?”  
  
“I'll try.”  She held it out, groaning as she stretched her arm as far as she could.    
  
Stan kicked his legs and swung back and forth, reaching for it at the apex of each swing.  He took a chance and let go of his sweater, grabbing the grappling hook as his body flew past his niece.  He somersaulted in mid-air, feeling every beat of his heart thump through his arteries as he took aim for a space between two stalactites.  The hook shot forth, latching onto stone and halting his plummet with a near whiplash-inducing jolt.  He clung to the hook's firing mechanism, his arms and legs curled around it, breath sputtering in ragged bursts.  Gradually, his legs and arms uncurled and he hung limply.  He shivered as the sticky sap tickled its way down his back, beneath his undershirt, pooling at the waistline of his boxers, and dribbling over his barely covered shoulder.  He gulped and reeled in the line a good ten yards.    
  
“Alright Mabel, grab Dipper's hand and get ready to grab mine.  Tell me when you're ready."  
  
Mabel reached for her brother's hand and he stretched for hers.  After a chorus of struggling sounds, Mabel shouted, “Yes!  We did it!  We're ready!”  
  
Stan's feet kicked again sending him swinging to and fro.  He kicked once more, gaining height, his heart lodged in his throat as he reached out for his niece.  Their fingers touched but he could not grasp them.  He bent his legs and repelled off of the cavern wall sending him sailing back toward Mabel.  She stretched further and wrapped her hand around his wrist, his weight tugging at her coat.  He clasped his hand around her wrist, feeling the sap give way.  It separated into strings like melted cheese as her hair and coat peeled away.  Their bodies jerked forward and stopped, straining her wrist as she held tight onto her brother.  Her grip tightened, unrelenting as his coat and pants were pulled from the goo.    
  
“Ahh!” they screamed in unison as they swung forward, on a collision course with the cavern wall.  They braced themselves, their feet positioned to repel off of it.  With the next swing, Dipper reached out for Jeff, Jeff reached for Shmebulock, and Shmebulock reached for Carson.      
  
“Hey, if you leave this device with us, we can get the rest of our brothers down, you guys better go after the rest of your family,” Jeff said, feeling slightly nauseated from swinging around.    
  
“You sure?”  Mabel asked as Stan eased up on the trigger, lowering them to the cavern floor while their swinging settled to a gentle sway.    
  
“Yeah.  Get going.  We'll catch up.”  He released Dipper's hand and landed safely in the moss below.    
  
“What about your clothes, Grunkle Stan?”  Dipper asked, releasing Mabel's hand and landing on a large fern with an 'Oof'.  
  
“We'll come back for them later, your um...  friend there is right.  We gotta help my brother."  Stan released Mabel's wrist as they lowered closer to the spongy moss.  She landed on her feet with a slight stumble.    
  
Stan released the trigger letting his bottom collide with the forest floor right beside his discarded shoes.  At least he'd have those, if nothing else.  After slipping them back on, he rubbed his lower back, knees cracking as he stood.  Dipper tried and failed to suppress a laugh at the green streaks smeared across the backside of his boxers.  “Ha ha very funny,” Stan grunbled.  “Alright let's go.  Find them...  Wait...  how _are_ we going to find them?”    
  
“Hmm.  Oh!  Oh man, why didn't we think of this before?  It was so obvious!” Dipper smacked his forehead.  “GPS.”    
  
“GP- What?” Stan asked.  
  
Dipper waved his phone.  “I set up the tracking when you guys first got your phones.  Mabel, set yours up and leave it with Jeff so they can find us when they're ready.”  
  
“Already on it.  And done.”  She poked at the screen then handed her phone to the brown-bearded gnome.  She spouted out some basic instructions before joining Dipper and Stan on their hunt for Ford and Fiddleford.                      

 


	7. Illusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get frightening for Ford and Fiddleford when 210 finds them in the ruins of the cryogenic containment lab.
> 
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> [sketch to go with this](http://skillfulstudio.tumblr.com/post/146192727828/a-sketch-thingy-of-poor-ford-being-mentally)
> 
>  
> 
> OK this chapter's got some warnings: Some mild gore. Flashbacks. Injury and injury mention. Major character injury. Violence. But mostly verbal abuse.  
> Same disclaimer applies to Shifty as usual. It's saying and doing anything it can to cause pain. It's using whatever information it's gathered by listening in on conversations, watching Ford write, and general observation to try to confront them with whatever will hurt them most. It's not necessarily their actual fears and it doesn't necessarily reflect the opinions of the characters it portrays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to usually-confused.tumblr.com for reading over this and chatting with me about it!
> 
>  
> 
> Spoilerific warnings about specifics within the verbal abuse: 
> 
> \- Fidds is accused of tearing his family apart in ways that could be perceived as acephobic. (again, used as something meant to hurt him, It hurt me to write it T__T)  
> \- Ford also encounters some verbal abuse that could be considered acephobic. (Equally as painful to write.)  
> \- Young Ford is referred to as effeminate by 210 in a form it conjured from a photo of Filbrick.  
> (I headcanon that Filbrick would have been alive during the Great Depression and WWII and possibly fought in the war. He's the product of a rough life that left him believing that "real men" were fighters, not artists and scientists, hence the boxing thing. I imagine he would have told Ford to "man up" or "suck it up" more than once and that it might have been an insecurity of his in his younger days. This, of course, doesn't excuse Filbrick from being a jerk but explains why.)

Pale light flickered across mounds of crumpled metal, shattered glass, and bent bolts in what was once Ford and Fiddleford's cryogenic containment lab.  Holes and caverns punctured the stone walls from all sides save for the concrete slab separating it from the control room.  A gruff voice echoed through the cavern berating Ford, blaming him for possibilities and uncertainties, using his supposed negligence of the kids' safety to dig deep and to bring an expression of raw devastation and stunned confusion to his face.    
     
The shape shifter had replicated Stan's appearance right down to the callouses on his fingers, swiping through the air and eliciting a flinch from its target.  Its hair, tied into a low pony tail, was the same tone of silvery gray, thin in contrast to its coarse beard.  It's nose blushed red and its belly hung over its belt.  It had mastered his vocal range and even altered its smell to that of cigars, menthol, and the bubbly sweetness of Pitt Cola it puffed into Ford's face with every venomous word.   
  
Fiddleford didn't know much about how Ford and his brother interacted but he  _had_ seen them fight once before at the most inopportune moment.  Locked between the grips of Dipper and Pacifica, part of the human energy circuit of the zodiac Ford had created, he could only watch as Stan publicly blamed Ford for causing the end of the world, as Ford accepted responsibility and apologized, as he practically begged for help to fix his mistakes, and as Stan extorted a thank you from him.  Fiddleford couldn't blame Ford for his snarky grammar correction, though he had to admit the timing was atrocious.  Stan had nearly tackled him.  He never knew until then just how physical the Stan twins fights could become.    
  
He remembered his own outburst more thirty years ago.  He remembered how he'd attempted to warn Ford of the destruction his creation would bring and how Ford had refused to shut it down.  With his mind in shambles after seeing the Hell within the portal, he had reached his limit.  Ford was gone.  Whatever that thing was that he'd been working with had taken hold and was never going to let him go.  He'd lost him.  It hurt too much for too long to watch his obsession devour him, chipping more of him away each day.  He'd remained complacent as things spiraled out of control before his eyes, blinded himself by the promise of a world altering achievement.  When uneasiness crept in, he'd offered only the odd sentiment of concern which was swiftly squashed and brushed under any one of Ford's triangular themed rugs.  After that final strike shattered his hopes of any future they might have together and utterly smashed his delusions that their creation would benefit the world, he'd snapped and walked out on him, too disoriented to acknowledge his desperate rebuttals about how he didn't need anyone, how he'd do it on his own.    
  
Ford was not one to give up.  He could only be pushed so far before fighting back, even under the most dire of circumstances.  Fiddleford had only recently discovered he  _had_  confronted Bill after the incident.  He  _had believed_  him after all.  He  _had acted_  on his warnings and tried to fight back.   _Maybe things would 'a been different if I'd 'a had the fortitude to fight a little longer, ta be persistent and stubborn like him so I could 'a helped him.  How long did he fight that that... monster and never give up?  And why?   Why is he acting so...  so meek this time?_  

He stiffened his jaw and stepped between the gritty yelling and the near speechlessness of his old friend.  "That's enough!  Lay off, will ya!"  Fiddleford's arm extended protectively in front of Ford, eyes glaring up from under his hat.  "He really did try to stop the kids but they went ahead on their own anyway.  This was the best plan we had at the time.  Maybe it wasn't perfect but...  but we had ta do something."    

The creature pushed him aside with one arm sending him stumbling  backward.  A stray bolt dug into the sole of his boot and he slid, arms spinning to stop himself from falling.  He regained his footing, legs bowed and arms spread for balance.  Tipping his hat back into place, he looked up to see the Stan impersonator leaning over Ford, spitting verbal poison in his face.   
  
"Sorry?  Sorry!  Sorry won't bring them back if something happened to them!  Sorry doesn't fix that one of your mistakes came back to bite me!"

"Y-you're not Stan..." Ford muttered.  The phone slid from his hands, clattering to the stone floor, the screen cracking on impact.  His fists clenched matching his jaw.    
  
"StanfooOAAAH!" The yell spilled into the lab's ruins from a sloped tunnel behind the impostor.  Ford smiled and nearly laughed in relief as the real Stan slid a good three feet across the floor on his stomach, hands extended forward and fingers spread as if he'd just finished careening down a water slide.  His pony tail was glued to the back of his undershirt in a gob of amber sap, green stains streaked the backside of his boxers, and strands of webbing stubbornly clung around the fingers of one hand.  With a groan, he sat up, rubbing his head.    
   
Dipper's "Whoaaa!" siphoned out of the tunnel as he slid through.  He crashed into Stan, the goo smeared across the back of his coat nearly sticking to his great uncle's arm.  As he tried to stand, Mabel's "WHEEEE!" grew louder.  She spun down the slope and across the floor colliding with Dipper, effectively gluing him to Stan and herself to him.    
  
She laughed, "That was fun!  Can we do it again?"     
  
"I think once is enough for me," Stan said with a chuckle, trying at first to pry Dipper's coat off his arm then shrugging and pulling both twins into a sloppy hug.    
  
"Stanley!  Dipper!  Mabel!"  Ford wanted to run to them, to hug them tight and never let go, goo and all.  He didn't know it was possible to love them more but seeing them in their messy, sticky state, laughing and joking, filled him with a warmth which bubbled up into his crinkled cheeks and wide grin.  His family was safe.  The real Stan was alive and well and hugging the kids, ready to take on any battle in nothing more than his boxers and undershirt.    
  
Regardless, the impostor stood between them.  It rotated toward the Pines huddle on one foot, fuming with rage.  "You!  How?" It stomped closer to the sticky family members shifting back to the form of a spider, eight legs lifting in smooth rhythm around it's brown furry body.  Stan shifted, his arms spread protectively in front of the younger twins as he glared at the creature.      
  
Ford flipped his coat aside and drew his blaster.  Fiddleford's scarf unraveled from around his neck as he rolled to one side to get a clear shot, assuring his family was far from the line of fire.  The spider scurried forward, dodging the blast in an artful tangle of legs zigging and zagging.  It skidded backwards to a stop, and plastered the already sticky Pines family with iridescent webbing.    
  
"Oh come on!" Stan protested, the last word muffled as webbing spun across his mouth, adhering to the remaining strands in his beard.    
  
The shape shifter rolled, dodging another shot from Ford's blaster and morphing back to Stan's form mid-roll.  In a smooth motion, it regained its footing and squared it's human-shaped shoulders.  It brushed off the facsimile of Stan's sheepskin coat and turned to Ford.  "Go ahead."  It said, stepping forward into Ford's line of fire.  "Shoot."      
  
Ford steadied his arms, struggling to keep a shaky, sweat-drenched hold on his blaster as the creature's feet pressed forward.  Without realizing, he held his breath until his head spun.  A ragged inhale scraped its way into his lungs feeling as if he'd breathed in crushed ice rather than stale air.  He tightened his grip, arms regaining enough composure to shoot.  He gritted his teeth as he aimed at the creature in his brother's form.    

The impostor looked straight at him with Stan-like eyes beneath black rimmed glasses.    
  
"Grunkle Ford!" Dipper shouted, "That's not Grunkle Stan!  It's the shape shifter!  It's okay to shoot!"  
  
"Yeah!" Mabel chimed in, "Do it!"  
  
Stan wriggled, twisting and turning until he managed to free his arm and rip the newest coating of spider silk from his beard.  "AH!  Jeez!  For the record I have a whole new level of respect for anyone who waxes now...  Wow."  He muttered, shaking his head.  "Ford!  Stanford!  That's not me!  I'm over here!  Just shoot it!"      
  
Ford heard his family's proclamations and pleas but their voices garbled into static, muted by the miasma in his mind.   _"Sorry doesn't fix that one of your mistakes came back to bite_ _me."_  The shape shifter had no idea how deeply those words had pierced his heart, as if the creature's claws had reached in and ripped it out, digging in and shredding it.  His finger shook as it tightened around the trigger.  The blaster wobbled in his hands.  He closed his eyes, trying to escape the sight of his brother's figure beyond the barrel, trying to remember it wasn't real, it wasn't him.    
  
It backfired.  Memories crashed down upon him, vivid visions in the disconnected darkness.  His horn rimmed glasses framed his brother's blank stare, the cracked lens he'd looked past for more than a decade suddenly the center of his attention.  _It's too late.  Everything is broken_.  His charred and bloodied lab coat, frayed around every edge, draped over Stan's slouched form.  _It should be me!  Not him.  I'm broken.  Not him.  I can't do this.  I have to.  I don't want to.  He doesn't deserve this!  I can't take him away from the kids.  They love him!  I can't.  But Bill will destroy us all if I don't.  I have to.  I can't.  They're going to hate me.  It's all my fault.  It's not fair.  They shouldn't have to suffer because of me._ _I can't.  I have to...  I-_  
  
Ford's throat clenched as he opened his eyes.  His arms slackened and lowered as if he could no longer fight the gravity pulling them down.  The blaster slipped from his grasp and clattered to the lab's stone floor.  His legs wobbled, the strength draining from them.  He dropped to his knees, his voice dry and strained as he stammered, "I-I can't.  Not again.  I can't lose you again."  
  
He stared forward blankly, seeing only images played back in his mind, hearing only memories of a conversation.  A pyramid of erratic blue bars surrounded him.  Rings of searing pain encircled his wrists, neck, and ankles.  Every muscle ached.  His mind raced, brimming with catastrophic thoughts about the kids and the danger they'd been thrown into.   _Because of him!  Because I trusted him!_   Ash and smoke burned his nostrils and the metallic tang of blood lingered in the back of his throat.  His arms draped over the glowing bars, his forehead pressed against them as his brother argued in favor of his plan from a viewpoint which was normally Ford's; the greater good, one life in exchange for the world's safety.  He hated it in that moment but could not dispute it.    
  
"You're right, Stan," he'd said, choking on every word, not because of some sense of deflated pride or admission of defeat, but because of what it meant he had to do.  "It's our only hope."  
  
"Great.  Glad you agree.  Now give me your sweater," Stan had said, his tone cold and determined.    
  
"Alright just...  close your eyes... please," he'd asked thinking it silly to worry about Stan seeing the mess beneath his layers.  He honestly didn't know why it mattered.  Was he ashamed?  Worried about Stan's reaction?  Trying to keep the focus on larger issues rather than his sorry state?  Perhaps a complicated blend of reasons, some he couldn't even fathom at the time.       
  
"Still a prude as always," Stan had said, passing his shirt, tie, and coat to him, unashamed of his undershirt and girdle, of baring his own scars, one of which stirred the already tumultuous guilt within Ford.  "Don't worry I won't look.  Just like old times."  He'd kept his word, turning away and closing his eyes until Ford had fully buttoned his brother's shirt up over his burn-streaked neck and fastened the sleeves around his blistered wrists.   
  
"Alright..." he'd said, stifling the need to wince with every movement as he adjusted Stan's coat over his narrower shoulders.  "Hey Stan... I..."  
  
"Shh.  We're out of time."  
  
It was too late.  Too late to mend their broken bond, to laugh or talk or reminisce.  He no longer cared about the past, about who started their feud, about how much they'd hurt each other.  He dreaded what he had to do with every spark of his consciousness.  Hadn't Bill taken enough from him?  His best friend, his trust, his sanity, his pride, his goals, his dreams, thirty years of his life, and now his brother and... and the kids.    _The kids will never forgive me...  And I wouldn't blame them._    
  
****  
  
Stan fell silent as Ford's blaster hit the stone floor, the clank echoing through the cavern.  His struggling ceased and his shoulders sagged as an icy numbness spread through him.  He hadn't thought...  No.  He'd actively blocked out any thoughts regarding the actual moment his mind and memories burned to nothingness.  He chose not to dive too deeply into it because of this.  While he had confronted Bill inside his mind, Ford had to pull the trigger on the outside.  His own brother had to effectively kill him in front of the kids they both cherished.    
  
A single memory slammed into him as if physically punching him in the gut.  He was kneeling on the forest floor, blinking as the golden sun wavered with the sway of pine needles above.  A pair of arms wrapped around him.  Someone rested their chin on his shoulder and sniffled in his ear.  Ford.  His twin's entire body shook as he pulled himself together, denying himself the expression of emotion he must have needed desperately in that moment.  He remembered how broken he looked as he explained to the kids, "I'm sorry.  Stan's gone."  
  
Part of him had an idea that the experience affected his brother profoundly.  Most of him wanted to pretend it never happened, to avoid thinking about it and just move on with life.  He almost wanted to laugh at the idea that every memory lapse he experienced served as a reminder.  What he hadn't considered was how fortunate he must be that his flashbacks involved triumphantly punching a demon in the face and feeling like he'd been truly useful for once.  He couldn't even imagine what thoughts had brought his brother to his knees, unresponsive to the world around him.    
  
_"I can't lose you again"_  
  
The words circled in Stan's mind.  _Is that why he's been acting so...  un-Ford-like since then?_  
          
****       
  
As Ford buckled to his knees Fiddleford rushed forward, nearly scampering on all fours, his coat flapping behind him.  He scooped up the blaster and leapt between the Stan-shaped creature and the man he'd professed his love to mere hours ago.  Even if the response wasn't ideal, it was as if his protective instincts from their years of anomaly hunting had never faded.     
  
He aimed at the creature, his arms steady despite the pounding of his heart, and pulled the trigger.  A blue streak of light shot forth with nearly no recoil and a slight crackling, static sound.  It burned a hole straight through the shape shifter's chest sending it reeling backwards.    
  
Stan was torn between cheering and making a joke about how Fiddleford had just shot him.  Before he could choose, his eyes widened as he watched the creature wobble and lurch back to its feet.  The hole pierced through the copy of himself bubbled at the edges.  Muscle, bone, flesh, and fiber threaded back into place, sealing the wound.  In a swirl of tan the creature morphed to the form of a much younger Ford, clad in a pristine version of his tattered lab coat, a white button down shirt, and black tie.  His brown hair swooped forward above the undamaged lenses of his former glasses, the glasses Stan had offered up to Ford upon his return only to find his prescription had changed too drastically over the years for them to be of any use.    
  
The young Ford replica focused on Fiddleford, his eyes boring into him.  "Still have that crush on me do you?  I bet you never did change your password.  You're still following me around like a puppy protecting me from myself."  
  
_Crush?_   Stan thought, mind numbed in confusion and shock.   _Him?  He had (has?) a crush on...  On Poindexter?  Wait.  What?_  
  
Fiddleford's arms lowered, the blaster slipping from his grip.  At a loss, he stepped back and poised his arms over his chest in defense.      
  
The false Ford edged closer to Fiddleford.  "What about your family?  Are you just going to desert them?  Leave them for me?  You really shouldn't.  You know you're nothing more than an assistant to me, just the hired help.  You're only an expendable pair of hands I'm using to build what I need.  I'll send you back home again as soon as we finish."  The creature's shape flashed to the figure of a woman.  "What about me?  You never did love me did you?  It's true, you know.  I am cheating on you.  And who could blame me?  You're never home.  You practically ignore me because you'd rather be at work with him than with your own wife."    
  
Fiddleford's wide eyes teared up.  "S-stop...  Stop it...  I...  I did love you...  Jus...  Just not how ya' needed me to...  I-  I didn't know.  I didn't understand it back then!"  
  
The creature shrank to a toddler whose brown hair flopped over his eyes.  Its growling voice spewed forth from the child's lips, "Mama's gonna leave you.  She's gonna take me away from you.  She's sad all the time.  I hate you for making her sad."  
  
"Stop...  Please..."  His jaw trembled as he backed against the cavern wall, slamming his eyes shut.  
  
Stan had never tried to hide his contempt for the town kook who plagued his existence from the moment he opened the Murder Hut but he couldn't stand seeing the shape shifter use his family to mercilessly dig at his deepest fears and unravel his sanity.  "Ford!" he yelled, trying to get through to his brother who remained slumped on the floor, unresponsive to the world around him.  "Stanford please!  You gotta listen to me!  Poindexter!  It's me!  Stan!"    
  
Mabel joined in.  "Grunkle Ford!  It's me, Mabel.  We're safe!"  
  
Dipper added, "Grunkle Ford, it's over!  We defeated Bill and we're all safe!  Can you hear us?!  Listen to our voices!  Fiddleford needs your help!"  
  
The shape shifter grew and stretched taking Ford's current form.  It slammed one hand against the cavern wall grabbing a fistful of Fiddleford's coat with the other.      
  
"Stanford you gotta hear me!  Please!"  Stan shouted.     
  
Ford blinked, his vision clearing.  Stan's voice grew louder in his ears.  The kids shouted to him, their words like a fresh breeze clearing away the smog in his mind.    
  
"You have to help Fiddleford!"  Dipper yelled.    
  
"Fiddleford?"  He mumbled as the haze lifted.  "Fiddleford!"  Reality struck him.  His head turned back and forth, searching for his old friend.  He gasped when he spotted him.  The shape shifter, in his form, pinned him to the wall, a six fingered hand reaching for his throat.    
  
"I got ya buddy!" Ford said as he scrambled to his feet and closed the gap between them in wide bounds.  His shoulder slammed into the mimicry of himself sending it teetering sideways.    
  
Fiddleford huffed in relief, peeling himself away from the wall.  He wanted to throw his arms around Ford in gratitude but had only enough time to spout a warning, "Look out!"   
  
Ford ducked and rolled as the shape shifter lunged at him.  "Fidds!  Help Stan and the kids!" he instructed, bobbing to the left to avoid a punch aimed at his head.    
  
The long-bearded engineer nodded and scampered toward the sticky pile of Pines family members.  He reached into his coat pocket, retrieved a utility knife. and attempted to cut the webbing away.  The fibers glued themselves to the blade but it managed to slice slowly through.    
  
Stan gasped, his eyes opening wide.  Fiddleford turned to see what elicited such a response from the crusty con man.  The shape shifter had morphed into the form of a sepia tinted Filbrick Pines copied from an old photo of the family Ford had once kept in the lab.  It caught Ford's fist mid-swing.  His body froze in shock as it clutched his wrist and forced his fist open, bending five of his six fingers back.  He wriggled his hand away with a yell muffled behind his gritted teeth and cradled the sore but thankfully undamaged hand in his other palm.      
  
"You worthless freak of nature."  The creature's imitation of Filbrick's voice was crude, formed from imagination.  It was gruff and slobbery and no less intimidating.  "I knew all those nerd awards wouldn't get you anywhere.  Real men don't waste their time with their noses in books or doodling weird sci-fi drawings all over the place.  They don't let themselves get beat up by bullies or cry like babies when they're teased.  I was always disappointed that you were such an effeminate misfit."  The creature clicked its tongue in a disapproving "tsk" and said, "You were nothing more than burden on this family and you never paid us back.  You only meant anything to me when I thought you were our ticket to fortune.  But look at you.  You've done nothing useful for us or this world."    
  
Ford stepped back as the creature thinned itself down into an equally sepia toned form of his mother.  It imitated a female voice but the pitch was higher than hers and it lacked her accent, sounding bland in comparison.  "What about my little Stanley?  It's your fault my baby's gone!  I hate you for taking him away from me!  You were never going to bring home a nice girl and give me grandchildren but he might have!  He had a lovely girlfriend.  But you?  You were too much of a weirdo.  You'd better stick to trying to make something of yourself with your studies because no one will ever love you."      
  
Fiddleford gasped, his fervent attempts to slice through the webbing halted.   _He really believes that, doesn't he?_   He thought.  
  
_"I love you."_  
  
_"No you don't."_  
  
The scene from earlier that day played over in his mind.  The complete flatness and confidence of Ford's answer suddenly made sense because...   _Sweet Sarsaparilla, he actually believes that!_  
  
"No.  Don't you dare!"  Fiddleford practically growled as the shape shifter took his younger form, round glasses perched on his elongated nose.  
  
"It's cute how ya think I'm your buddy."  It pointed at Ford, backing him closer to the cavern wall.  "Guess I do a purdy good job a' actin'.  Can't beat the paycheck though.  Gotta say it's mighty generous.  Makes it worth putting up with yer shenanigans."  
  
"Ford, ya' know that ain't true!" Fiddleford said, tearing at the webbing around the Pines family, frantic to free them, hoping they could help or at least hoping to get them all out of danger.  
  
The creature twisted in on itself in an inky whirlpool and solidified into the silhouette of a cycloptic triangular demon, the image of Bill from his journal.  Ford pressed himself against the wall, ragged breaths puffing through his lips.  "No...  No!"  His vision blacked out, his limbs stiffening against the stone.  The sensation of searing pain shot through him, as real to him as it had been when he was bound before an audience of interdimensional nightmares.  He struggled to choke back a scream but it was torn from his throat with the memory of his body arching involuntarily against the burning manacles suspending him beside Bill's throne.    
  
Ford's scream reverberated off the curved walls, echoed down the caverns and burrows, and paralyzed his family and Fiddleford.  They looked on in awe, horror, and concern as he slumped against the stone wall, gasping for air.  
  
"D-do you really think...  That...  that I survived all those years...  that I managed to escape from your thugs all those times...  just to... to give up now?"  Ford muttered, his fingers curling into fists.    
  
The shape shifter floated closer, its inky hands reaching out for the neck of Ford's sweater.  It clutched fistfuls of the red knit and pulled him forward.  "Wow, whatever this creature is really did a number on you, didn't it?"  
  
Ford's brows furrowed, a frightening grin lifting one cheek.  From beneath his coat, he drew a switchblade.  In a blur it clicked open and sliced through his collar, freeing him from the creature's grasp.  The shape shifter released the severed patches of knit and somersaulted to the side, avoiding a vicious swipe of the blade.   
  
Fiddleford tore the remaining webbing away from the Pines in a panic.  He scampered toward Ford's blaster and aimed it at the floating creature.  With a  growl of a laugh and a swirl of silver and tan, it morphed into an exact copy of Ford, shredded collar and all.  Fiddleford pulled the trigger, the blast of blue barely missing the false Ford's shoulder.  It leapt away, tackling the real Ford and sending them rolling across the floor, the knife slipping from Ford's hand.      
  
"This is low Bill, taking my form..." Ford growled, his hands wrapping around 210's neck.  210 returned the gesture, rolling the real Ford onto his back and pinning him down.     
  
"Ford..." Fiddleford stammered.  "What...  What do I do?"    
  
Ford's breath caught.   _Fiddleford?  Why is he here?_  He scanned the room seeing the fearamid's black walls of illogical stairs and beams bordered in red and rainbow light that his memory projected onto the gray cavern walls.  His eyes paused as he caught sight of his family poised and ready but uncertain of which figure to attack. _Dipper...  Mabel...  Stan...  No..._    He hooked his right foot around 210's left, grabbed its left arm and shifted his weight to the side sending the creature tumbling off of him.  He stumbled to his feet, his protesting joints slowing his motions.  The creature easily regained it's footing and slammed into him again.     
  
Fiddleford watched helplessly as two identical Stanfords struggled against each other, unsure of which to aim for.   

“Fiddleford!” One of them grunted as the other wrestled him to the ground, drawing his arm up his back. “Do something!” He wriggled free, jumping to his feet with a hold on the other Ford’s arms.

“I’ve had enough of your tricks.” One Ford knocked the other to the ground, the other rolled the first onto his back.

“Fiddleford, it’s me!” The Ford pinning the other to the floor proclaimed. “Blast him!”

“Fiddleford! Get Stan and the kids out of here!” The Ford pinned to the ground, the one Fiddleford and his family instantly realized was the real Ford, begged.  He slipped a thumb-sized gray disk from his coat pocket with a nod to Fiddleford.

Fiddliford's eyes widened at the familiar sight of the explosive he and Ford had developed together for demolition purposes.  It was a well stabilized capsule which released a small but effective charge.  "Do what he says!"  Fiddleford instructed Stan, pointing to the busted opening which once housed the decontamination shower.  "Go!  Get them out of here!"  
  
Stan nodded and gathered the younger twins into his arms.  He scurried through the busted decontamination shower and into the lab, glancing back to see his brother mash the disk against the other Ford’s shoulder and pull a tab from it’s side.  A red light flashed, a beep accompanying each blink.  The beeps sounded slowly at first but gained speed with each blip.  With a powerful kick, the real Ford sent the false one tumbling backward into the remnants of the cryogenic chambers.    
  
"Fiddleford, go!"  He yelled, running from the intensifying beeps.    
  
A green tendril slithered forward from the rubble, wrapping around Ford's leg.  He toppled over, landing on his hands and knees with a grunt.    

“No!” Fiddleford bolted toward him. “Aw heck no!”  
  
A shrill screech sounded from the mounds of rubble as Fiddleford blasted the tendril.  The severed end released Ford's leg and flipped and curled like a broken lizard's tail.  Fiddleford wrapped his arm around Ford's lifting him to his feet.  The beeping sped up, almost a constant buzz.  

“Fiddleford!”  Ford's voice cut out airily as he lurched toward the lankier man.  "Cover your ears and open your mouth," he ordered,  bringing them both to their knees.  Ford covered his own ears, his elbows posed on either side of the smaller man's face, pressing his lanky hands against his ears.  His chin squished Fiddleford's hat down, his body and coat sheltering him as the blinking disk let out a final earsplitting beep.  

****

Tattered knit pressed against Fiddleford’s cheek, smothering him in the conflicting smells of formaldehyde and cinnamon.  The pair of elbows resting on his shoulders slipped down.  The weight of the body protecting him leaned against him, growing heavier.  As the smoke cleared and dust settled, Fiddleford lowered his hands from his ears.  He wrapped one arm around Ford, resting his hand on the owl-eyed man’s back.  It brushed against tatters and tears shredded across his lab coat. His fingers drew back as they pressed against something sharp and damp.  He pulled his hand away, his breath hitching at the sight of blood smeared across his palm.  

  
  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK I'm just going to go curl up in an exhausted and emotionally drained ball now... See you next week...  
> *waves feebly
> 
> *The order to cover your ears and open your mouth was to equalize the pressure when the explosion went off to prevent permanent damage to their ears and hearing.


	8. What is Real?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford fights the shape shifter in the midst of one of his most vivid flashbacks. Believing he's pitted against Bill, he takes drastic measures to eradicate his opponent but his panicked plan goes awry. Ford and Fiddleford's long repressed wishes come true in some of the worst ways possible. 
> 
> Warnings: Blood, slight gore, injury, major character injury, pain and tears (oh wait that was me writing this...) 
> 
> Special thanks to usually-confused.tumblr.com for reading over this and helping me with ideas!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Illustration is here if you'd like to see](http://skillfulstudio.tumblr.com/post/146475124733/maybe-its-not-too-late-chapter-8)

_I won't let you hurt my family ever again, Bill!_  The images in Ford's mind projected themselves onto the world around him, transforming the cavern lab into the fearamid's onyx and red throne room.  He struggled desperately against the creature who mirrored his image, the creature his mind insisted was his former tormentor.  "Fiddleford!  Get Stan and the kids out of here!" he commanded, slipping a gray disc from his pocket.  With a wild grin he jammed the tiny explosive against the creature's shoulder and yanked the activation tab.  He funneled his remaining strength into a single, powerful kick.  The lookalike tumbled backwards into the ruins of the cryogenic containment units with a clatter and crash.    
  
He scrambled to his feet and ran two steps forward.  The third found him sprawled on his hands and knees, stunned.  His heart raced as he felt something tug at his leg.   _Bill!_   The sound of a chain rattling, scraping against the floor played over in his mind.   _You're making this so much harder than it needs to be.  Everyone has a weakness.  I'll make you talk.  It's only a matter of time..._  
  
A sizzling shot blasted the ground behind his foot.  The pressure squeezing his boot against his ankle released him.  He looked up to find his long-bearded friend standing above him, his smoking blaster gripped between his hands and a look of pure determination stiffening his cheeks and brows.   _Fiddleford..._  
  
_****_  
  
Fiddleford turned at the sound of a grunt and the dull thump of a body hitting the floor.  Ford was sprawled on his hands and knees, a green tendril wrapped around his ankle, tugging him toward the rubble.  "No!  Aw heck no!"  He darted back aiming Ford's blaster at the shape shifter's assaulting appendage.  A sizzle of blue severed the limb, wringing a gurgling wail from within the piles of debris.  Fiddelford hooked his arm around Ford's pulling him to his feet.  As they ran, the bomb's countdown, a rapid succession of beeps, bled closer and closer together.      
  
"Fiddleford!"  Ford's voice snagged as he realized they were out of time.      
  
The bow legged man turned at the call of his name.  His eyes widened when he saw Ford leap toward him.  His thoughts jumbled together into incoherent babble as Ford spouted instructions nearly mashing them into one long word.  "Cover your ears and open your mouth!"   Fiddleford reeled backwards under the larger man's weight slamming into his thin frame.   His rear hit the ground, jolting his hips.  His legs curled up against his chest and his hands flew to his ears. _This can't be happening._   Ford had landed on his knees in front of him, his body and coat wrapped protectively around him.  He covered his own ears and rested his elbows on Fiddleford's shoulders, his forearms pressing his palms firmly against his ears.  
  
The final urgent beep blended into a thundering blast.  The shockwave rocked their bodies with breakneck force.  Glass and twisted metal hurtled out from the fireball at the center source.  For a moment, all sense and sensation vanished into a panicked blur of white oblivion.  
  
The echo lulled and an icy hush settled in.  Sensation returned gradually.  The live wires hanging from the cavern ceiling crackled and sparked.  Pebbles clattered down from the stalactites in clouds of dust and dirt.   The lights overhead strobed and flickered.   
  
Fiddleford could feel his legs folded, one upright against his chest, the other leaning to his left.  His muscles were clenched and rigid, his heart thumping against his ribs.  He could feel tattered knit pressed against his forehead, frayed but soft.  He inhaled, expecting smoke to burn his nostrils.  Instead, the conflicting smells of formaldehyde and cinnamon filled his senses, stirring fond memories in his mind.    
  
He'd always imagined this closeness as some distant, impossible dream.  He'd imagined it as a moment of relaxation among the busy bustle of life and projects, as comforting and warm, not terrifying and...   _cold.  He...  He's cold...  
  
_ Ford's elbows slipped down from Fiddleford's shoulders.  His body grew heavy, draping over him.  As the smoke cleared and dust settled, Fiddleford freed one arm to rest it on the owl-eyed man’s back finding the fabric of his lab coat tattered and torn.  His fingers drew back as they pressed against something sharp and damp.    
  
“Stanford?”  Fiddleford pulled his hand away in a panic, staring at it with horror in his eyes.  Blood.  “STANFORD!”  He wiggled out from under his protector, careful to keep a supportive grip on him.  Gently, he shifted Ford’s weight, laying him on his side and supporting his head in the crook of his elbow.   _Please be alright...  Please..._        
  
****  
  
Stan ushered Dipper and Mabel through the broken husk of the decontamination shower.  He glanced over his shoulder to assure his brother and the old hillbilly were following behind.  "Ha, get 'im, Ford," he cheered to himself as his brother's boots slammed into his lookalike's gut, sending it crashing into the mounds of rubble.  Ford lifted himself to his feet and ran after Fiddleford.  Satisfied, Stan continued sprinting behind the kids into the control room.  He turned again as they approached the security room's broken sliding doors wedged at awkward angles in their pocket frame.    
  
_Where are they?  
_  
His hands jutted out, palms slammed against the busted doors, as a thunderous blast rattled the room.  Dipper lost his balance, tumbling backward.  Mabel braced herself against the security room's wall, her teeth clenched at the sudden explosion.     
  
_Oh no...  No!_ Stan's thoughts screamed.  He shook his head, momentarily frozen in fear, jaw agape.  His feet carried him forward before his mind registered their motion.    
  
"Grunkle Stan, what's going on?!" Mabel called after him, her brows furrowed with worry.  She reached for her brother's arm and helped him back to his feet.    
  
"Grunkle Ford...  McGucket!  They're still back there!"  Dipper's frenzied words cracked.  He grabbed Mabel's hand, the sticky sap on his palm gluing her hand to his.  He darted after Stan, dragging her behind him.    
  
"Ford?!  Stanford!" Stan yelled, hurtling over the remains of the supercomputers crumpled on the control room's floor.  He stumbled to a standstill inside the remnants of the decontamination shower, covering his mouth and nose from the smoke rolling past him.  He squinted, searching through the flickering clouds for his brother and the town kook.  Mabel nearly bounced off of Dipper as he skidded to a stop beside Stan.    
  
As the dust settled, Stan spotted the silhouette of a crouched figure with a tall, crooked hat.  In his arms was the motionless form of his twin.   _No...  No!_ "Stanford!"  
  
His feet pelted against the floor, carrying him over shattered glass and splintered metal scattered by the blast.  He dropped to the ground in front of Fiddleford, his bare knees scraping raw against the stone.    
  
“Grunkle Ford!”  Dipper and Mabel shouted in unison, crashing to the floor beside Stan.        
  
“Stanford you- you knucklehead!  What did you do?”  Stan’s hand dragged down the side of his face.  “Come on...  You gotta be OK…  you just gotta…”    
  
Fiddleford's hand trembled as he cupped it over Ford's nose and mouth.  Slow and shallow breaths brushed against his palm.  “H-he’s breathing,” Fiddleford stuttered.  He hissed through his teeth in empathy as his fingers parted Ford's hair to examine the patch of red seeping down into the white streak above his left ear.  Though he feared what he might find, he leaned forward to assess the state of Ford's back.    
  
It felt as if a jolt of lightning struck his chest, sending shivers through his limbs.  His coat and sweater were shredded and blotched with spreading stains of crimson.  A shard of glass protruded from one of the more severe seeming wounds.  Fiddleford didn't want to think of what might be embedded in the other punctures spotting his back.     
  
“He’s hurt pretty bad," he choked on the words, blinking back tears at the corners of his eyes.  He reached for Ford's cracked glasses, tipped over his closed eyes and gently straightened them.  His hand rested his hand on his cheek, fingers lightly ruffling his sideburn as if trying to rouse him from a nap.  “Stay with us.  Please...  Stanford.  Please.  Wake up…”      
  
****  
  
A blurry world of golden sunshine materialized around Ford as if melting through the darkness.  He didn’t remember opening his eyes or even falling asleep.  He couldn’t remember anything at all.  He couldn’t think beyond watching the mesmerizing flecks of sunlight sway over the mossy forest floor.  Pine needles rustled overhead in a breeze he could not feel.  He was leaning back against something, no, someone.  He could see an arm draped over his shoulder, a hand resting below his ribs.  It was blurry, as usual. Somehow he knew it was always blurry.    
  
_This dream again?  It was better when I didn't know it was a dream..._ Except it wasn't.  After hoping and even almost believing it was real, waking up was bleak and desolate.    
  
But something was different this time, clearer.  He squinted and he could see the outline of fingernails.  Tough, cracked, and ragged, they were set into gnarled, work-worn fingers.  The hand was nicked, neglected, and speckled with brown age spots, much like his own, as if the owner had given up caring what happened to it a long time ago, favoring work and survival over all else for too many years.  
  
Part of him had always wondered who was with him in this dream but he’d always assured himself if was nothing more than a figment of his imagination.  It was merely a faceless, genderless, blank figure his mind had conjured to fill a void in his waking life.  He’d never let himself look before.  He’d been too afraid it would be no one at all or that this small, nearly sensationless scrap of bliss would dissolve into nothing.  He’d worried that if he turned around, he’d wake up in the top bunk, staring at the cracks in the ceiling of their New Jersey apartment, that he’d open his eyes to find a roach staring at him from atop the stack of books beside his dorm room’s bed, antennae twitching curiously, or worse, that he’d awaken crouched among the rubble of a demolished building or huddled in a cave, or chained, arms aching from supporting his weight, cuffs burning his wrists and neck, a crowd of interdimentional eyes upon him, laughing, taunting, cheering for another blast of searing pain to wring screams from his throat.  
  
The hand moved as if responding to his catastrophic thoughts.  Though he felt nothing, he knew it rested on his shoulder, almost asking him to turn.   _No.  Please.  Can't we just stay like this?_   In the bright numbness, one sensation broke through, his twitching nerves.  He wanted to breath deeply, to steady himself somehow but nothing made any difference.   _It doesn't matter...  It's not real._   _Turn around.  It’s just a dream.  
_  
He lifted himself from the mossy forest floor, from the shallow comfort offered by his own subconscious, from the seemingly ethereal arms wrapped around him.  The movement was slow and cautious when he turned.    
  
Propped against a wide tree trunk, relaxing in the patchy shade, was a knobby-kneed man.  A brown hat with an elongated crown and wide, frayed brim tipped down over his face.  His long, tapered beard draped across a red and orange sweater vest.  With a tap from one finger his hat lifted, revealing gentle blue eyes and a warm gap-toothed grin.  
  
“Well, it’s about time you let yourself see,” he said in a familiar Appalachian vernacular. He reached for the fingerprint smudged banjo leaning against the tree and plucked it faintly, filling Ford’s mind with the tune he’d listened to countless times while sketching and writing.  A tune he’d hummed to himself while boiling water for tea, wandering the woods alone, or looking for his next camp site in a strange new dimension.  A tune he'd played earlier that day to help its composer recover from a memory lapse.     
  
“It’s you…”  He whispered, surprised but not surprised.  “Has…  Has it always been you?”  
  
“No.  Not always,” Fiddleford answered, his image shifting to a younger, golden-haired version of himself.  “But longer than you’re letting yourself think.”  
  
Ford glanced down at his hands.  His wrinkles and scars had vanished, age spots no longer speckled across raised veins.  The tattered edges of his coat sleeves were crisp and new.  He was thirty years younger, staring down at his partner in science (and the odd crime or two), unable to deny the truth staring back at him any longer.  He closed his eyes, backing away, “No. you’re married.  I have no right…”  
  
“True I was.  You did a pretty good job back then of using that as an excuse but that doesn’t magically make you stop feeling things, no matter how much you want to.”  
  
“But…  You could do better…”  
  
“Ya’ used that excuse a lot too; thinkin’ you didn’t have a chance so why bother admitting anything, even to yourself?”  
  
Ford's hands slipped under his glasses, covering his eyes.  He let out a confused groan followed by an equally baffled, “What should I do?"    
  
The golden light faded around him, the images blurring into darkness.   _No...  Don't leave.  Not again...  I don't want to be alone again...  
  
**** _  
  
Ford groaned lightly as he awoke.  His head rested against a rail or pipe of some sort…  No it was softer than that, warmer, and curled around him almost…  protectively?  An arm?  An incredibly bony arm?  Something tightened around his shoulder, drawing him closer to plush, felted wool, to the bristling of course hair against his cheek, to the nostalgic musk of machine oil and instant coffee and the sweet tang of artificial cherry flavoring.    
  
Something brushed against his cheek, a warm, comforting sort of tingle that ruffled his sideburn.  It was simultaneously wonderful and terrible.  It was soft and gentle and everything he’d longed for in his resurfacing dreams but it sent a shockwave through his limbs, an ache which prodded the backs of his closed eyes with a stinging heat.  When was the last time someone touched his face without it being a punch, or jab, or threat; without mocking or degrading him, ripping away any shred of dignity left to him?  A lifetime ago when his mother’s thumb wiped charcoal and graphite from his cheeks as he glanced up from his sketchbook?  He always wondered what it would feel like.  His body could anticipate his own hands patting out the flames of his reckless shaving routine or leaning on his palms during a conversation.  This was entirely different; seemingly spontaneous and almost frightening.  Would a choke hold follow?  A flick of his nose?  An electric shock?  No.  Somehow he knew it wouldn’t.  There was nothing malicious about it.   _It’s different.  Am I still dreaming?  Is this real?  
_  
“Stanford…  Please…”  Fiddleford’s twang, soft and desperate, led him out of his haze.  “Wake up…”    
  
His eyes eased open.  He blinked slowly, pressing his eyelids tightly closed each time.  It felt as if weights had been bound to his arm as he tried to lift it, reaching for the hand resting on his cheek.   _Is it real?_   It was solid under his fingertips, warm and wrinkled with knobby knuckles and lumpy veins.  His fingers wrapped around it squeezing tightly until it wriggled free.  He swallowed hard.   _Stupid!  You probably hurt him and ruined everything._   _It doesn’t matter.  It’s not real anyway._  
  
Five fingers intertwined with his six.  
  
_Right?_  
  
“Stanford!  Thank the sparklin' stars in the sky!”      
  
_It’s just a dream again…_            
  
His head pounded worse than it did the morning after he and Stan ran up a $150 bar tab trying to see who could chug a Guiness faster.  
  
_Wait…_  
  
“You scared me more than a tornado inside a knife factory.”  
_  
It can’t be…_  
  
“It’s Ok, Fiddleford…” Ford mumbled, “I…  I’m fine.”  Except he wasn’t.  His free hand rubbed the sore spot on the side of his head, finding his hair wet and matted.  He jerked his hand away and held it in front of his still unfocused eyes.  “Oh.”  His palm was smeared with blood.  “Well that’s probably not good…”    
  
_It...  It's real._  
  
He squished the knobby-knuckled hand in his once more, testing to be certain it was truly there.  Was it?  He still wasn't sure.      
  
"Grunkle Ford, you really scared us," Mabel said with a sniffle.    
  
"It's a good thing you have that plate in your head or we might have lost you," Dipper added, his eyes fixed on the red seeping through Ford's hair.   
  
"We gotta get you to a hospital," Stan spoke through gritted teeth.  His head tilted sideways as he parted the tears in his brother's coat to examine his sliced and punctured back.    
  
Ford's head spun, trying to sort out his surroundings, to piece together what had happened, what was a dream and what was reality.  He had been fighting something that had taken his shape, something that had captured his family and tormented his friend.   _Bill!_   Panic gripped him, strangling his throat and stopping his heart.  "Where is he?!  Where’s Bill?!”  His jaw shook as the words blurted out.      
  
"Bill's gone," Dipper's explanation was cut short as Ford shifted, trying to sit up.    
  
"No!  No no no don't!" Stan reached out in a futile attempt to stop him.    
  
"Ford, no stop!" Fiddleford's arms could not hold him down.  
  
He sat up, eyes squinted and teeth grinding as pain shot across his back and stabbed at the side of his head.  He numbed himself to it focusing only on the hallucinations his mind had conjured.       
  
"Oh no!  Is this like what happened earlier?" Mabel asked, her hands wringing her ponytail.     
  
"What's going on?  Is he gonna be alright?"  Stan bit his bottom lip.  More than thirty years ago he'd seen his brother paranoid and unraveling at the seams, black circles under his bloodshot eyes, and smelling as if he'd bathed in scotch and bourbon.  He'd spouted what, at the time, seemed like nonsensical illusions and visions but even then he'd never been this disoriented.   
  
"I- I know I used to joke that I wished he'd get a brain injury and lose some IQ points but I..."  He wanted to say he never meant it but it was true that some part of him did want his brother to be less distracted by science, art, and the abnormal.  He wanted him to be able to focus on family and living life.  Since weirdmageddon ended, Ford had done just that, enjoying adventures at sea and being a shoulder to lean on and an ear to listen whenever Stan needed someone.       
  
Stan hadn't simply wanted his brother back, he'd wanted an ideal of his brother and he'd gotten just that...  And it hadn't felt right since the moment he'd regained his memories.  Seeing him so confused, wondering if the blow to his head really _had_ caused damage, Stan knew he wanted his  _real_  brother back.  All of him.  He wanted the brother who played nerdy games, corrected his grammar, and spoke in scholarly babble he couldn't understand, the brother who was just as stubborn, hot-headed, and cantankerous as himself, the brother he could tease, who would fight back rather than bite his tongue and take it silently.  "I...  Ford, please be alright...  I just want you back.  All of you.  Even the parts that make me want to strangle you!"         
  
Dipper knelt in front of him and spoke softly, "Grunkle Ford, Bill's gone.  We defeated him..."   
  
Mabel, Stan, and Fiddleford exchanged worried glances.    
  
"Grunkle Ford, Bill is never going to hurt us again," Mabel added, wiping her eyes as he looked to her with a foggy, distant expression.  
  
"Bill is gone.  We defeated him," Dipper repeated.    
  
"Bill...  is gone...?"  His fingers encircled his wrist, his thumb slipping under the cuff of his sweater.  "He's gone.  We defeated him..." he muttered, feeling the bumps and furrows of his scars.  _This is proof.  It's healed.  It's over.  He's gone._  
  
Dipper continued trying to ground him, to bring his mind back to the present, "Find something blue and tell me what you see."  
  
"Your coat..."  
  
"Find something re-" he stopped short at the sight of red smudged across his great uncle's hand, "Pink."  
  
"Mabel's coat..."   
  
"How about a smell, can you smell anything?"  
  
"Menthol... and cigars..." His gaze shifted to his brother, still somewhat vacant, "Stan...  Bad day for your knees?"    
  
Stan smiled, "Yeah.  Had to really slather on the Icy Hot this morning."   
  
_It's working._ Dipper thought, grateful to Stan for answering as normally as possible.  "Grunkle Ford, what do you," he hesitated to ask if he could feel anything considering the wounds splashed across his back.  No, he's have to phrase it differently.  "Reach out and touch something and focus on what it feels like."    
  
His hand hovered beside him.  His fingers brushed against Fiddleford's gnarled knuckles.  He rested his hand over the lanky one beneath it feeling it turn so their fingers were intertwined.          
  
He blinked, shaking his head slowly.  The foggy darkness surrounding him flickered.  The semi-functional overhead lights flashed across the cavern floor and walls, catching the edges of crumpled metal and dispelling the dark phantasm of the fearamid's erratic architecture.  His eyes shifted.  "Dipper, Mabel, Stan..." he felt something squeeze his hand,  "Fiddleford?"  He returned the reassuring gesture with a shy, uncertain smile.    
  
Reality hit him hard and all at once, his nerves screaming at the severity of his injuries.  He tried and failed to suppress a groan, his nose wrinkling and eyes slammed shut as his head pounded and pain tore across his back.  His attempt to rub the sore spot above his left ear stopped short.  He hissed and pulled his hand away.  With a gasp his mind fully returned to the present.  "The shape shifter!  Where is it?!"     
  
"O’er tha’re.  Knocked out," Fiddleford shook his thumb toward the smoking pile of rubble.    
  
"Yeah good thing too, we need to call you an ambulance," Stan said, "Dipper, you wanna-"  
  
"Stan..."  The last thing Ford wanted to do was end up stuck in a hospital, bound to an IV, possibly sedated, and worst of all, having to face explaining things that would become unavoidable once his layers were removed.  He just wanted to go home, find a quiet, dark place, and sort out the scattered thoughts and emotions in his head.  "H-how are we going to explain where we are to the paramedics?  We-  can we just...  go home?  I-I'll be fine."  
  
"Ford you're kidding me, right?  I mean if you could see the state of your back-"  
  
"Yes I know, Stanley, I can feel it."  He bit his bottom lip, wishing he could take back the snarky, snapped words.  
  
"There's no way you can stitch wounds on your own back and don't look at me or the kids 'cause we're not going to risk making things worse by digging the shrapnel out of you without a doctor around!"    
  
Ford didn't have the mental strength to bite his tongue as he had been for the past year and a half.  The thoughts bubbled out unfiltered, "Well technically I am a doctor and actually Fiddleford and I designed that explosive to expel as little shrapnel as possible so it's probably debris-"  
  
Stan threw his arms in the air, "You know what?  You're right.  You must be fine if you have the presence of mind to sass me about your degrees and lecture me on the technicalities of your little bomb project."  
  
"Actually I was referring more to the misuse of the term shrapnel."  
  
Dipper, Mabel, and Fiddleford gawked at the retort.  The last time Ford had corrected Stan, things did not exactly end well.  They readied themselves to break up whatever physical fight ensued.      
  
Stan's eyebrow twitched, anger welling up in his gut, "You-!" He paused, a smile spreading across his face with a light breathy laugh.  "You...  You're back!  I missed getting attitude from you.  I've missed you fighting back.  I've missed...  you!"    
  
Ford's lips lifted to a faint smile as Stan reached out to wrap an arm around his neck, to draw him into a gentle half-hug.  His weak grin sagged as Stan's eyes widened. _Oh no...  I forgot._  Ford thought.    
  
Stan's fingers brushed the tattered neck of Ford's sweater aside and rested on the scarred flesh below.  He could feel Ford swallow hard, his neck pulsing nervously under his hand.  "Ford.  What is this?"  
  
"N-nothing.  It's nothing.  Just some old scars," he closed his eyes, knowing quite well that Stan wasn't going to accept such a weak explanation.    
  
"These don't look like 'nothing' and they certainly don't look 'old' either.  What- what haven't you been telling us?"  Stan lowered his hand.        
  
"Grunkle Ford...  I'm sorry but you really scared us today.  You were having flashbacks," Dipper said with worry lifting his brows.  "I'm guessing they were from whatever happened between you and..."  he hesitated to say the name.  
  
"Grunkle Ford," Mabel looked up to him with watery eyes, "We were really scared.  What happened to you?  What did Bill do to you?"  
  
_Scared?  They were scared?  Because of me?_  He felt a hand on his shoulder, warm and comforting.  Fiddleford.    
  
"It's ok if you don't want to talk about it," His accent was soothing and reassuring.    
  
Ford lowered his head and breathed deeply.  His movements were slow and shaky as he reached for the cuff of his sweater, his fingers smudging blood along the hem of his coat sleeve.  He peeled back both cuffs, exposing the red and pink lumps forming rings around his wrists.    
  
Mabel's hand traced the bumps and furrows of his right wrist.  "He did this to you?"  Her voice was soft and sorrowful, a voice he never wanted to cause her to use.    
  
"He wanted information from you..."  Stan trailed off, his mind working toward a conclusion, "That thing.  That monster tortured you?!"  
  
Ford hesitated before giving a single nod.    
  
"That...  He was a fool.  Everyone knows its easier to get information if you offer rewards rather than...  this."  Stan grunted.    
  
"He tried that first.  He offered me the world.  When I refused..."  
  
"Ford...  Wait.  You mean to tell me that after all of that was over, you were dealing with that on your own?  Patching up your own damn torture wounds without telling anyone?!"  
  
_Yes.  Because we needed to focus on your recovery.  Because I didn't want to take the focus away from your needs._   His head hurt and it was a miracle the words didn't blurt out.  He wondered if they had and he just didn't know it.  From the quizzical expressions surrounding him, he guessed they hadn't. _Maybe getting to a hospital isn't such a bad idea..._  His eyes squinted as the world around him spun for a moment.  His eyes refocused and he formed the best answer he could.  "It's just...  what I've always done."    
  
“What you’ve-  FORD!  What do you mean always?!”  Stan asked, nearly yelling.      
  
Ford wasn't sure if Stan was angry or distressed or something else.  He would have every right to be angry.  Stan was the one person he could count on to help him patch his wounds after Crampelter and his gang cornered him and he'd just completely discredited that.  “Sorry I…  I didn’t mean always.  You used to help me when we were kids…”  
  
“That’s not what I meant.  What-?  Holy hot cakes what happened to you?  I-I wish you'd tell me.  Tell us.  I mean, I get it if you're not ready to talk about it but... we want to help you.”  Stan's expression of raw concern was mirrored in the younger twins' faces.       
  
“It…  wasn’t easy in the other dimensions...” He was almost thankful at first to be interrupted.  A growl gurgled from within the ruins of the cryogenic containment units.  As the danger registered in Ford's mind, it sent shivers through his chest.  His family froze, terrified that the creature had somehow survived.      
  
The sound stiffened Fiddleford's limbs, peeling his eyes wide open.  He turned to the smoking heap behind them to find a burned and bloodied representation of Ford trying to stand.  “Oh no you don’t.”  With the cracking and snapping of old bones, he rose, wielding his banjo like a club.    
  
It twanged as the rounded body slammed into the shape shifter’s side.  "How dare you take his form!"  The creature shifted forms involuntarily on impact, morphing into of a young Fiddleford.   _Twang!_  The banjo slammed into its side again causing another random shift in its form.  Bill again.   _Twang!_  It fell into a centipede-shaped heap on the floor.    
  
Ford laughed gently, teeth still gritted in pain.  A warm grin spread across his face as he watched Fiddleford banjo-beat their attacker.    
  
“This is for tormenting us!”   _Twang!_   “This is for betraying him!”   _Twang!_   “This is for kidnappin' his brother!”   _Twang!_  
  
Dipper and Mabel watched, laughing as the shape shifter changed forms with every thwack.  Even Stan couldn't suppress a chuckle at the sight.  Mabel caught a glimpse of Ford in her peripheral vision and did a double take.      
  
“Oh my gosh, Dipper look!”  Mabel shook his shoulder and pointed to their wounded grunkle, slumped on the floor with one eye closed in pain but the other fixed on Fiddleford's furious swings.  
  
“What?”  Dipper turned to see a fond smile lift his great uncle's cheeks.     
  
“He’s making the same face you used to make when Wendy was around.” Mabel's whisper held all the excitement of a child in an amusement park.      
  
Dipper let out a partly disturbed, partly disgusted "ugh" and asked, “Is that really the face I used to make?  Yikes…  No wonder she already knew how I felt.”  
  
“Now wait just a minute,” Stan said, looking over their shoulders.  “What exactly is going on here?”  
  
“Well uh,  the other night we sort of found out that McGucket always had a bit of a crush on Great uncle Ford,” Dipper began.      
  
“So we wanted them to have a chance to, you know, talk.”  Mabel finished.  
  
“Ugh seriously?  So it's true then?!  What that...  shape shifter thing said?”  Stan grumbled, his posture tensing.  “So that’s why you wanted me to leave the house today?”  
  
“Yeah.  We promised McGucket we’d keep his secret until he had a chance to talk to Great Uncle Ford himself," Dipper explained between twangs of Fiddlford's nearly busted banjo.    
  
Stan’s glasses tipped forward as he rubbed his eyes.  “You gotta be kidding me.”  
  
“Grunkle Stan?” Dipper questioned, raising an eyebrow, unsure of why he seemed to object.    
  
“We didn’t think you’d have any issues with-  I mean you told us _you_ like guys sometimes…” Mabel said.     
  
“I got no problem with that.  My brother can have whatever kind of relationship with whatever gender he wants.  But why did it have to be him?!”    
  
“Oh…”  
  
“That guy was nothing but a nuisance the entire time I was here.  Sometimes I thought he had something against me personally.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that Stan and Fidds are not on good terms in this fic... There is a reason for it, and it will be an interesting mini-arc I hope <3\. 
> 
> Again... I'm just going to go crawl into a small space and cry for a bit after writing this... T__T


	9. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan, Fiddleford, Dipper, and Mabel try to convince Ford to go to a hospital. Ford is reminded of how much the younger twins care about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I don't have any art for this one. My hands and brain are conspiring against me this week. If anyone else wants to draw something, I'd be super happy to see it! (and post a link to it here :)) 
> 
> Also, it's a bit of a short update but I've been kind of sick this week :P. 
> 
> Special thanks to usually-confused.tumblr.com for reading my babble about this!

White lights dimmed and flickered, catching the edges of the dust clouds settling in the aftermath of the explosion.  The twang of Fiddleford's banjo with each blow to the shape shifter's morphing body reverberated through the cavern lab. Stan could only stare, jaw agape, as his brother smiled fondly at the town kook currently banjo-beating the beast of unimaginable horror, seemingly numb to the gash tinting his hair red and the sliced flesh across the back of his left hand.  For a moment, he appeared to forget the glass, metal, and debris lodged in the wounds bleeding down his back and upper arms.   
  
Stan’s glasses tipped forward as he rubbed his eyes.  "You gotta be kidding me."  
  
"Grunkle Stan?" Dipper questioned, raising an eyebrow..    
  
"We didn’t think you’d have any issues with-  I mean you told us you like guys sometimes." Mabel said.     
  
"I got no problem with that.  My brother can have whatever kind of relationship with whatever gender he wants.  But why did it have to be him?!"    
  
"Oh…"  Dipper had always had a feeling that his great uncle didn't care much for the man who'd spent most of his adult life living in the junkyard.  He'd often referred to him with slurs like "crazy" and "possum breath."  When he'd rejected Fiddleford's plans for the Shacktron during Weirdmageddon, he wasn't sure if it was because of Stan's anger toward his brother or an aversion to endangering himself and the family.  While it may have been a combination of both, he suddenly understood that his general distaste for McGucket had played a part.    
  
“That guy was nothing but a nuisance the entire time I was here.  Sometimes I thought he had something against me personally,” Stan said, his voice purposely loud enough that Fiddleford could hear him.    
  
"Well, ya wouldn't be entirely wrong," Fiddleford answered, swinging his banjo over his shoulder, its round body barely clinging to the splintered neck.  
  
"See!  I knew it!" Stan attempted to cross his arms over his chest but lowered them as the sticky sap threatened to glue them to his undershirt.    
  
"F-Fiddleford?" Ford winced, closing one eye, his head lowering as he gasped for a breath through a fresh wave of pain stabbing at his back.    
  
A moan gurgled from the rubble at Fiddleford's feet, an inky hand extending upward.  His brows furrowed and his lips puckered in annoyance as he delivered a swift, silencing blow to the triangular-shaped creature, his banjo giving a final twang as its body broke away from its neck.  "I suppose," he explained, "even though I cornswaggled my memory, something never did sit right with me about him and the shack."  He slid down from the heaps of ruin and knelt in front of Ford, resting his hand on his shoulder.  "‘Course I didn’t really know what it was all that time but I just couldn’t stand something about it.  Now I know it’s ‘cause it was supposed to be you there but...  You were gone.  And this guy," he paused, wagging his thumb at an offended looking Stan, "was there makin’ a mockery outta all we built together...  All of the things that used to make you smile.”  
  
"Hey!  Everything I did was to bring him back!  How about a thank you for spendin' thirty years-"  His complaint stopped short as Fiddleford's last few words struck him hard.   _All of the things that used to make you smile._  He knew exactly what smile he meant, the fascinated curl of his lips that usually accompanied an excited brightening of his eyes beneath glasses that slipped down his nose.   As much as he'd mocked his brother's enthusiasm for anomalies, in their travels aboard the Stan 'O War II, he'd grown to appreciate how genuinely happy he was while investigating them.  "Wait...  A mockery?  Ford?" Stan tilted his head, trying to catch a glimpse of his brother's face, lowered into shadow.  "Is that how you felt when you came back?  Is that why you called the Mystery Shack 'junk'?"  
  
Ford winced, gasping every few words, but managed an answer, "...Yes.  Y-You- you stood up to bullies for me when it came to my...  my hands...  but...  you always made fun of me for being a nerd.  You put me down for liking what I did.  I...  I just wanted to find people...  or...  a place where I could feel...  valid."  
  
"You ah, you know I was just kidding with you, right?"  Stan knew that was partly a lie.  He'd lashed out more than once when he felt inferior to his twin but he never knew Ford was hiding his own insecurities behind books and seeking validation through awards and stellar grades.  He never realized he wanted someone else in his life who was passionate about the same things he was, someone to share his obsessions and interests with who would be just as enthusiastic about them.    
  
"Can...  can we talk about this later..." Ford wished he hadn't said as much as he had.  He knew Stan was just kidding but it didn't hurt any less.  If anything, he'd made it worse for himself by trying to convince himself he was just being overly sensitive.  All it accomplished was making him feel even more like he was broken.  He shook his head, trying to clear his mind and regretted it immediately, although the pain shooting across his forehead certainly did shatter his thought process.  "The...  the shape shifter...  we have to find a way to contain it..."  He moved his legs, trying to stand but barely managing to catch himself as he fell forward.  Fiddleford reached out, steadying him with one hand on his shoulder.    
  
"What we have to do is get you to a hospital now or there might not be a later," Stan rested his hand on his twin's other shoulder, "But you were right about one thing; how do we tell the paramedics where we are?  The last thing we need is them seeing this place, calling the authorities, and getting the government on our cases again."  
  
"I know!"  Dipper pulled out his phone and scrolled through the recent callers list, "I can call Soos!  He was with us here last time.  He can drive us to the hospital."  
  
"Yes!  He'll know exactly where we are!"  Mabel added.    
  
"What...  what about insurance and...  ID?  Some...  some people here might know that you're Stanley but as far as the legal system is concerned, you're still Stanford Pines and I...  I still don't exist."  Ford pointed out.  
  
"Oh."  The full weight of Stan's identity theft plan crashed down upon him.  Even if he gave Ford his name back, there was a strong possibility he could be arrested if he used it.  Besides, it wasn't like he had a company insurance plan for the Mystery Shack.  He'd always paid in cash for doctor appointments and prescriptions.   _There has to be a way.  Wait.  Of course!_  "Ford.  Just give them the name Dr. Stanford Spruce and tell them that you don't have insurance but can pay in cash and that your family will bring your ID by later.  I know a guy.  I'll fix this okay?"    
  
"Hello, Soos?"  Dipper plugged his ear to try to hear the weak, static layered answer.  His voice faded as he disappeared through the hollowed out decontamination shower.    
  
Ford's eyebrow twitched dubiously.  His eyes shifted, trying to focus on Fiddleford but his vision blurred into a numb dizziness.  "But...  the shape shifter...  I can't just..."  
  
"There's nothing you can do to fight it in that condition," Stan said, "Listen.  If this was the other way around and I was hurt, wouldn't you want me to get help?"  
  
"But..."  Ford couldn't deny it.  
  
"Yeah and if it was me," Fiddleford added, "You'd want me ta' get help, right?"  
  
Defeated, he nodded.    
  
"Your brother and I can figure out what to do about that th'are critter," Fiddleford assured him.    
  
"Uh, we can?  I was thinking we just seal up any way out of here and call it a day."  
  
A low mutter drew close, funneling through the tunnel Stan and the younger twins had traversed earlier.  A rising chorus of distressed and startled hoots and yells grew louder as a flood of sticky, red hatted gnomes poured from the tunnel.    
  
"Jeff!  Shmebulock!  You guys found us!" Mabel cheered.    
  
"Yeah took a while to figure it out but this thing led us right to you."  Jeff handed Mabel's phone to her.  "Oh and we managed to get your clothes down," He shielded his eyes from Stan's underwear clad state.  "Carson, you wanna give him is pants, please."  
  
"Oh uh, thanks," Stan said as three gnomes stepped forward, each handing him a piece of his discarded clothing.  Carson handed him his pants, still quite sticky in the rear.  Steve handed him his sweater, the sleeves glued to it haphazardly, making it impossible to put it back on.  Jason handed him his coat, sap-smeared but at least wearable.  He shrugged it over his shoulders and stumbled into his pants, his shoes catching in the legs.           
  
"Whoa hey, what happened to him," Jeff asked, catching a glimpse of Ford.    
  
"We'll explain later."  Fiddleford answered, "Right now I could sure use yer help.  I think I gots' me a plan for how we can freeze-ify that shape shifter.  You gonna help us too, ya old crook?"  He asked Stan.    
  
"Hey!  I'll have you know I only stole half of my groceries today, you crazy coot!"    
  
"Grunkle Ford!"  Dipper reappeared, "Soos is on his way.  Can you stand?  If we could get you at least out of here in case that thing wakes up again."  
  
"Yes...  I-I'll try."    
  
"We'll help,"  Fiddleford said, draping Ford's left arm around his neck, ignoring the red smudging across his snowy beard and wool coat.    
  
Stan looped Ford's right arm around his neck, his khaki sleeve adhering to the gooey mess of Stan's pony tail and coat.  "Ready?  One.  Two."  
  
On "three" Stan and Fiddleford lifted while Ford focused his remaining strength on his legs.  With their support he took slow steps through the control room and security room.  Mabel and Dipper followed, lighting the way through the widened tunnel leading to the bunker.  They stared in awe at the scraps of metal which once lined the walls and the deep claw marks embedded in the stone and dirt.  Mabel grimaced and pulled Dipper back as he nearly stepped in something that stank like rancid meat and rotten eggs.    
  
Half way through, Ford's legs weakened, refusing to lift his weight any longer.  "I...  I'm sorry..." he slurred, his feet dragging along the ground.  
  
Stan and Fiddleford's bodies strained, their bones and muscles complaining with every step, but they managed to carry him into the bunker.  They lowered him onto the dusty, mold-speckled cot.    
  
"Dipper, Mabel.  Stay with him, please.  Make sure he gets to the hospital alright," Stan bent to speak to them, his eyes damp and his nose reddened more than usual.     
  
"Are you sure you two will be okay?"  Mabel asked.  
  
"Yeah,  We're gonna be fine," Fiddleford assured them.    
  
"Okay.  Soos should be here soon."  Dipper glanced at his phone to check for any updates from the new Mr. Mystery.    
  
"Grunkle Stan, take my phone so we can call you okay?"  Mabel held up her phone.    
  
"Uh sure," he said hesitantly, eyeing the pink, rhinestone encrusted, pig-eared case.     
  
"Mine-" Ford winced, cradling his bloodied left hand in his right.  "Mine's still back in the lab...  You can use it if...  if you like."  
  
"Actually that'd be spectacu-la-lar," Fiddleford interrupted.  "Mabel, can the little men borrow yours again?  It'd be good ta' have that tracking thingy they used to find us."  
  
"Yeah, I guess so."  
  
"Hey guys!  You down there?"  Soos's voice was faint, drifting down the spiral staircase.  
  
"Soos!  Yes.  We need your help.  Hurry."  Dipper answered.    
  
Two sets of feet clomped down the spiral stairs.  The silhouettes of Soos and Melody appeared against the moonlit entrance.  The light of Dipper's phone flashed across their worried expressions.    
  
"You were right, Soos.  This place is pretty cool but what's going on?  Oh my!"  She covered her mouth at the sight of Ford sitting on the cot, nearly doubled over in exhaustion, his bleeding back just visible enough in the dimness to send a shiver through her.  The light from Dipper's phone gleamed off of a shard of glass protruding from one of the longest gashes and the cut above his ear oozed down the side of his face, matting his sideburn.      
  
A low growl, barely audible, weak but no less horrifying, rattled through the lab's tunnel.  "Oh no.  It's waking up again," Mabel stepped back, bumping into Dipper.    
  
"Um.  what exactly was that?"  Melody asked.  
  
"The shape shifter!  It's been terrorizing us since this afternoon."  Mabel explained, wringing her ponytail.  
  
"Oh man, Great Uncle Ford, we gotta get you out of here!"  Dipper's voice was laced in panic.     
  
"Don't worry dudes, I got this."  Soos bent with his back facing Ford.  "How about a piggyback ride, Dr. Pines?"  
  
Ford wasn't exactly fond of the idea but he knew he had no chance of getting up the stairs otherwise.  With Stan and Fiddleford's help, he found himself draped over the handyman's back, his arms clinging to his neck.  Soos took each step gently, trying not to jar Ford's injuries.  Melody kept watch from behind, hands lifted and ready to help catch Ford in case his grip on Soos's neck slackened.   
  
"You...  You can call me Ford..." He mumbled, trying to keep his mind present.  
  
"But You worked hard for that title.  Someone should use it."  Soos insisted.     
  
Ford felt his consciousness slipping away, his limbs numb and heavy.   _No...  Focus on something...  Wait...  That smell..._  Formaldehyde and cinnamon.  A light chuckle shook his chest.  "You too huh?" he asked.  
  
"Ha ha yeah.  Wait, what are we talking about?" Soos questioned, digging in his pocket for the keys to his truck.  
  
"Zombies..."  
  
"Oh ha!  Yeah.  I have never craved brains so much in my life, dude.  Kinda creepy.  But also kinda cool."  
  
"The craving was quite intense if memory serves me.  It certainly was...  an experience."  He shivered as the evening air, still but frigid, chilled the exposed flesh on his back.     
  
"Wait you weren't kidding about that?  You really were a zombie?" Melody asked, "And...  and you too Dr. Pines?"  
  
He nodded, one eye closed as pain shot through his head.  "I...  I'm sorry to say that smell never washes out."    
  
"That's okay.  I've come to accept it."  Soos handed his keys to Melody as they reached the top step.  "Okay uh, you think you'll be alright laying on the back seat, Dr. Pines?"    
  
He tried to say yes but could only manage a slurred, "Mmm."   
  
"I'll sit back there with him," Mabel said, running up the stairs behind them with a blanket in her arms.       
  
With some difficulty, Soos and Melody helped Ford lie down on the back seat, his head resting on Mabel's lap, the blanket draped over him.  Soos drove carefully, taking any bumps slowly and straightaways as quickly as possible.    
  
Despite his best efforts to take long, slow breaths, Ford's breathing sped up, coming in ragged gasps.  His forehead dripped in sweat as a wave of nausea overtook him.  He reached for his wrist, pressing his thumb against a pressure point just below his palm, a point he'd learned to use long ago to ease his stomach.  The last thing he wanted to do was lose his lunch all over his niece's sweater.  Bad enough it was already... _blood...  that's my blood on her..._  His eyes squeezed shut as his nausea peaked.  He pressed his hands against his chest, his right hand still clinging to his left wrist, trying to stop their trembling.  It failed.  His entire body shook sending Mabel into a panic.      
  
"Soos...  Soos!  Hurry!  He's...  something's wrong!"   
  
He heard Dipper's voice but it sounded distant, as if he was speaking from another room, "Oh no.  I think he's going into shock..."  
  
_Shock...  He's probably right..._  
  
"Grunkle Ford..."  He felt Mabel's fingers ruffling his hair, "Please, don't leave us.  Hang on.  We're almost there."  Her voice hitched.  Something splashed against his cheek.    
  
_She's crying...  Why...?_    
  
"Please...  Grunkle Ford, you- you know that monster was wrong!  People do love you.   _We_ love you. _I_ love you!"  
  
_No one's said that to me in more than forty years...  And now two people have said it in one day and I...  might not make it through the night..._  


	10. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Fiddleford devise a plan to contain 210 and work toward putting it in action. Dipper and Mabel accompany Ford to the hospital and get a small break from the stress of the day. Ford struggles with some intense emotions while suffering from the delirium of Hypovolemic shock.
> 
> Warnings: Blood, slight gore, injury, major character injury
> 
> Special thanks to usually-confused.tumblr.com for reading over this and helping me with ideas!
> 
> Also, sorry again for no illustration. :/

Soos navigated the snowy terrain through forest and back to the Mystery Shack with little difficulty thanks to the tire tracks his truck had carved on his way in.  The high beams reflected off of the icy twin paths and flashed across the trees as he clutched the wheel, both hands digging into its faded and worn leather.  The blanket of white ended abruptly at the shack's parking lot where the shoveling efforts of Dan and his sons was a more than welcome sight.  The truck rolled through the parking lot and rambled up the path to the main road with ease.  Melody scanned the misty distance ahead keeping an eye out for wildlife as the road wound around wide trees toward the town.      
  
Dipper sat between the two adults, his legs twitching as his great uncle's accelerating breaths echoed in his ears.  He hated not knowing how severe his injuries were.  He hated leaving Stan and Fiddleford to deal with a monster on their own.  He hated not knowing how they were doing.  He stared down at his phone as if willing a message to come through.  Something.  Anything.  He'd accept any sign that they were still alright.  He tipped it back and forth blankly as a streetlight blinked through the window.   _Good we're getting closer to town,_ he thought.    
  
His sister's voice was soft when it sliced through the rhythmic rattling of the engine but it sent a terror through him as if someone had screamed in his ear.  "Soos..." she spoke with a tremor at first which quickly escalated to panic, "Soos!"   
  
Dipper wrung himself around in his seat, leaning over the back, his heart pounding.   
  
"Hurry!  He's...  something's wrong!"  Mabel glanced up to Dipper with reddened cheeks and a dripping nose.     
  
The flannel blanket draped over Ford appeared to vibrate with the shivering of his body despite the stuffy warmth of the truck's heater.  In the glow from another passing streetlight, he could see the glistening of perspiration beading up on his forehead.  He strained to catch a glimpse of his face and wished he hadn't.  Another brief flood of light revealed the deathly pallor of his great uncle's skin.  His eyes were clenched shut in pain.  His breaths came in shallow, swift gasps through parted lips which closed only long enough for him to swallow hard with a grimace every so often.  "Oh no..." Dipper said, the words squeezing through his constricted throat, "I think he's going into shock..."  
  
"Grunkle Ford..."  Mabel ruffled his hair gently, trying to do anything she could to ease his body's intensifying trembling.  "Please, don't leave us.  Hang on.  We're almost there."  Her voice hitched, tears spilling freely over her cheeks.   _What if he believes what that thing said?_   She thought, remembering the sepia mockery of her great grandmother scowling as it taunted, "No one will ever love you."   _He does believe it!  Or at least...  he worried it might be true.  How else would that thing have known to say something like that to upset him?  It's not right.  He shouldn't think that.  He can't die believing that!_ She bit her lip, squeezing her eyes shut as worst case scenarios shot through her optimism.  _No!_ Her mind argued back.   _He's going to be okay.  He has to be!_   "Please...  Grunkle Ford," she sobbed, "you...  you know that monster was wrong!  People do love you.   _We_  love you.   _I_  love you!"  
  
Ford lifted his heavy eyelids and tried to focus on her face but the world around him swirled and blurred.  _No one's said that to me in more than forty years.  And now two people have said it in one day and I...  might not make it through the night...  No!  I've made it through worse out of sheer spite.  I can make it through this because...  because now I want to actually live, not just survive._  
  
He opened his mouth to speak.  He tried to return Mabel's sentiment but no voice emerged, not even a mumble.   _I have to make it through this.  I have to make it so I can tell them I-._   He felt Mabel's fingers brush against his forehead.    
  
"He's sweating but he's so cold," he could hear her lips shaking as she spoke.  He felt a tug at his glasses.  Mabel slid them cautiously away from his face.  He hadn't realized how much they were digging into his cheek and nose until the pressure was gone.      
  
He heard a click followed by a squeak, a clunk, and the rustling of papers.  A slam and another click accompanied Dipper's panicked words, "Here.  Melody found these in the glove compartment.  Maybe it'll help?"    
  
Through his foggy vision, he could see the blurred and darkened form of Mabel reaching forward, trading his folded glasses for a wad of brown napkins from Greasy's Diner.  She brushed back his hair and pressed the coarse napkins against his forehead, wiping away the perspiration.  His eyes slipped shut for a moment under the soothing sensation, his nausea subsiding a little.  They opened again, barely half-mast, as the crinkling napkins lifted and something soft and warm brushed against his forehead.  His tangled and knotted thoughts unraveled and slipped away as he realized it was a kiss; a gentle peck like his mother used to give him when he was still a child.  Mabel's hand, small and calloused from years of glue gun use, pressed against his forehead and cheeks as if attempting to draw the chill from him.  His eyes squeezed shut.  He wasn't sure if it was from pain, delirium, or emotion (or perhaps some combination of the three) but he couldn't have been more grateful for the blanket bunched beneath his cheek as it absorbed the tears pooling in the corner of his right eye.   
  
Dipper felt the truck turn and looked up to reorient himself.  Snow flurries fluttered in the headlights and melted on the windshield as Soos navigated the hospital's parking lot.  He turned again, easing to a stop in the sheltered driveway beside the emergency room's entrance.  Melody shoved the door open the moment the truck stopped and jumped out with Dipper on her heels, Ford's glasses still clutched in one hand.  They charged through the sliding doors and toward the reception desk turning heads in the adjoining waiting room.  
  
"We need help," Melody shouted before reaching the desk.  She fell forward against it panting, "We have a severely injured friend out there."  
  
"It's my uncle!  There was an accident in his lab!"  Dipper added, both hands wrapped around his great uncle's cracked glasses.      
  
The world blurred.  Paramedics rushed out.  In a storm of hurried but precise movements, Ford was lifted from the back seat and onto a gurney.  He laid on his side, his eyes barely open, sweat dripping from his brow.  Blood pooled beneath him, tinting the olive blanket still draped loosely around him in a sickly shade of umber.  His breath came in ragged gasps through his parted lips, rattling with the quaking of his limbs.  Dipper and Mabel did their best to answer a rushed barrage of questions.    
  
"Any known allergies?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Any medical conditions, history of heart attack or stroke?"  
  
"I don't think so."  
  
"Is he on any medications?"  
  
"Not that we know of."  
  
The twins chased after him as the paramedics wheeled him inside.  Melody ran into the waiting room after them.  She reached out for their shoulders, hands clinging to the layer of sap glazed over them.  She pulled them back with gentle arms, hugging them both despite their sticky states.  "They're going to need us to stay here so they can do whatever is necessary to help him," she explained.    
  
"She's right," the black haired receptionist said, her voice sympathetic.  "They're going to do everything they can for him.  But right now you can help by giving us some information.  If you could wait in here for a few moments, someone will be right with you."  
  
They spent barely two minutes pacing in the overbearing heat of the waiting room.  A medical assistant called them into a pastel-splashed office which was barely large enough to hold a desk and two vinyl guest chairs.  When the questions came, Dipper and Mabel toned down the truth. They spun a story of a day spent climbing some rather sappy trees and how they arrived home to find their uncle's basement lab in a shambles and Dr. Spruce badly injured.  They kept their story vague, stating they didn't know much about his research but that maybe his brother did and that he would be there as soon as possible with his identification.    
  
The curly-haired, lanky assistant seemed satisfied with their answers and left for a few moments.  When she returned she explained, "We're going to take good care of your uncle.  They're treating his wounds as we speak but it's going to take a while.  I think you two should go home and get cleaned up in the meantime.  We'll call you if there are any complications."    
  
"What if there are and we're not here?!"  Dipper asked as the assistant guided them back the the waiting room.    
  
"What if he needs us?!  I don't want to leave him alone!"  Mabel added, her cheeks and eyes still red and her nose dripping.     
  
Melody negotiated an agreement.  "Why don't we take shifts?  Mabel, you and I can stay here while Soos takes Dipper home to shower and change.  Then when they get back, you and I can go while they stay here."  
  
Though neither wanted to leave for any amount of time, they knew that they couldn't continue leaving sticky grime on everything they touched.  Grudgingly, they agreed.    
  
****   
  
The air inside the bunker hung heavy, chilled by the open door in the false tree trunk.  The memory of watching Soos drape Ford over his back and carry him through the narrow door, disappearing into the night, played over in Stan's mind.  He bit his bottom lip, his heart sinking as increasingly catastrophic scenarios played in his mind.  _What if there's permanent damage?  What if moving him did something to his spine?  What if he's got a punctured lung?  What if he doesn't make it?  What if that was the last time you'll see him alive?  You should have said something more.  Something like a proper- No!  This isn't goodbye.  He's going to be fine.  He has to be.  
_  
A distant, gurgling moan pulled Stan's attention back to the winding caverns and decimated lab.  The bunker felt darker than before, even with the glow of Mabel's phone lighting up Jeff's bearded face.  Stan shivered and looked to Fiddleford.   _Great.  This guy.  I gotta trust him and whatever cockamamie plan he's cooked up._    
  
Fiddleford scowled at the distant gurgling moan and snorted.  "We gotta get back th'are so we can sneak by before Shifty regenera-mates itself.  Come on."  
  
Stan followed, grumbling internally about the years of having to shoo McGucket away from the shack with a broom, about the countless times he showed up at Mystery Shack events to ask ridiculous questions, some of which came a little too close to exposing his cons, about his creepy narrow-eyed or completely blank stares, and about the backhanded comments such as comparing him to something grotesque by saying "Like this gentleman".   _Just get through this for now and...  and you'll figure everything out later.  But he'll be hanging around even more often if he and Ford- ugh.  I don't even want to imagine that._  Pushing away the unsavory thoughts, he stumbled through the tunnel to the security room.  His eyes squinted trying to see through the near blinding dark.  He wasn't sure if his nose was compensating for his lack of eyesight or if the reek of rancid meat had grown stronger.  He gagged as he wondered if he'd stepped in one of the piles of stench he'd seen by the light of Dipper's phone earlier, his stomach twisting at the thought of having to clean it off of his shoes.      
  
The smell faded as they entered the security room.  Though the air was stale and humid, he breathed it deeply, thankful for the less repugnant metallic and mildewed dankness.  Stan followed Fiddleford's lead through the mosaic of rusted alien symbols, avoiding the trigger tile in the center of the room with a long step, and edging toward the busted sliding doors.  Behind him, he could hear the patter of the gnome's feet.  Another groan passed through the remains of the decontamination shower and echoed off the control room's walls.    
  
"So um," Stan whispered to Fiddleford, "You said you have a plan?"  
  
"Well sorta," Fiddleford scratched his hairless head, his hat tipping to the side.  
  
Stan's eyebrow twitched.  "Sorta?  Seriously!" He covered his mouth with both hands when his voice lifted above a whisper.  
  
"We're goin' back to wherever that goopedy-gook that's stuckimatized all over you came from.  Then Imma' work something out."    
  
"You really think I'm gonna be able to find that glue factory again?  You have no idea how much of a maze this place is..."  His jaw clenched as he motioned through the decontamination shower's mangled metal shell, showcasing the sponge-like pattern of holes piercing the cavern lab's walls.    
  
"I don't expect you to find it.  I can track it using the trail you 'n the kids left of that th'are sticky stuff.  It reeks of old pancake syrup."  Fiddleford said, his elongated nose sniffing the air around Stan.    
  
"Ugh personal space please," Stan pushed Fiddleford's face away with both hands.  
  
"Fair 'nough.  First thing's first, though.  We gotta git past that," Fiddleford pointed to the piles of rubble.  The crumpled metal appeared as if it was alive, writhing and swaying under the flickering lights.  A breathy growl filtered through the largest mound.  Fiddleford winced at the sound.  He regained his composure and continued presenting his plan with a nod to the gnomes.  "Ya'all little men stay here fer now.  We're gonna find Ford's talk-a-ma-jig box and ring you when we're ready."  
  
"I don't think I like where this is going."  Jeff's eyes narrowed.  
  
"Then ya'all can lead Shifty to us."  Fiddleford suggested.    
  
With an unimpressed expression Jeff said, "Yeah...  No.  Why are we even still here?  What do ya say, fellas?  Shall we leave and not get killed by the beast of unimaginable horror?"  
  
"Shmebulock."  The white bearded gnome said in an argumentative tone, holding up Mabel's grappling hook.  
  
"But!"  At the sight of the grappling hook, Jeff's argument trailed off.  "Hey wait.  Why do you still have that?  You should have given it back to Mabel."  
  
"Shmebulock," he hung his head as if ashamed, and handed it to Stan.    
  
"Anyway, come on guys, let's get out of here before we become a chopped gnome dinner."  Jeff took a step toward the open door, signalling for the others to follow.  
  
"Shmebulock!"  The elder gnome's fists balled at his sides.    
  
"But..." Jeff began only to be interrupted by a stern retort.    
  
"Smebulock."  
  
"Ugh!  I hate you," Jeff snorted.  "Alright fine.  Shmebulock has a point.  You guys were willing to help us so we'll stay here and return the favor.  We'll hide out here until you signal us."  He waved Mabel's phone around, the case's rubbery pig ears flapping in the air.    
  
"Yeah, give me that for a second," Stan said, swiping Mabel's phone from Jeff's hands.  The gnome protested, jumping up and grasping at the air above his head in futile attempts to retrieve it.  Stan tapped the screen a few times and handed it back.  "There.  It's on silent now.  Just keep an eye on it for a message saying 'ready', alright?"  He looked to McGucket.  "Well, if we're doing this let's get it over with."    
  
Fiddleford tiptoed through the busted shower, his glance lifting from the ground with every step to assure the shape shifter hadn't spotted them.  The lights flickered and dimmed.  A fizzing crackle cast the cave in darkness, freezing Fiddleford mid-step.  With an electric buzz a shower of sparks rained down from the live wires above.  The lights strobed like lightning in a thunderstorm.  Fiddleford's eyes darted back and forth, surveying the stone for Ford's phone until  _Ah!  There!_   _Wait?  No.  What is that?_  He squinted, lips pursed as he bent and poked at the metallic object with one finger.  Ford's blaster.   _I must have dropped it when-  when he saved me._  He lifted it, cradling it in his hands as if it was a priceless artifact. _I hope he's gonna be alright._  With a deep sigh he tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat.    
  
He focused back on scanning the ground for Ford's cracked phone.   _It was somewhere over here...  Ah!  There it is._  He bent to pick it up but as his gnarled fingers wrapped around it, another gurgling moan sent a tremor down his spine.     
  
Stan eyed the largest mound as the moan subsided.  With his vision fixed upon the noise's source, he bent to pick up Fiddleford's scarf, still sprawled across the floor in a string of red and orange from when Ford lost it during the earlier battle.  He grabbed a handful of knit and stood, his knees cracking audibly.  He grit his teeth, the hair on his arms rising, bristling against his coat sleeves as shadows crawled across the debris mound.     
  
It felt as though the walls shook as another growl radiated from the rubble pile.  Claws scratched against metal and a twisted sheet clattered down to the cavern floor.  Fiddleford clutched Ford's phone so fiercely that it dug into his palm, the cracked screen pressed against it.  He quickened his pace, heading for the burrow he'd seen Stan and the kids tumble through earlier.  Stan followed, his teeth grinding as more gurgles and growls echoed in his ears.  He refused to look back when the rubble shifted again, debris tumbling loose and falling to the ground in metallic clanks and earthy clunks.  He dashed for the darkness of the tunnel pressing his stomach against the curved wall inside, clutching the scarf to his chest as his breath came in swift bursts.      
  
"I think we're safe," Fiddleford whispered, peeling himself away from the wall and muffling a cough in his throat.  He puffed out a long breath pressing his hand over his thumping heart.      
  
"Is this even the right tunnel?"  Stan asked.  He attempted to back away from the wall and found his hand glued in place by a gob of solidifying sap.  "Oh.  Right.  Guess that answers that."    
  
Fiddleford slipped Ford's phone into his coat pocket and said, "Come on, Let's go."  He scampered up the slide-like tunnel only to slip back down again, spinning to a stop at Stan's feet.  
  
"Uh yeah, you're crazy if you think - actually no, you're just crazy period.  There's no way we can climb that."  He draped the scarf over Fiddleford's hat so the ends dangled in his face then folded his arms and leaned back against the wall, his coat and hair sticking to the stone.    
  
The lab's lights flickered into the tunnel momentarily illuminating Fiddleford's salty scowl.  His scowl lifted as he untangled himself from the scarf.  He held it to his nose, breathing deeply.  Ford's conflicting scents of formaldehyde and cinnamon still clung to it, mingling with Fiddleford's musk of machine oil and coffee.  He untangled it and draped it properly around his neck, trying to push aside his worries over Ford so he could focus on a second try at climbing the slope.   He crawled on his hands and knees but lost his grip half way up and flopped onto his stomach, sliding back down.    
  
"Hey wait a minute."  Stan stared up as the light flickered again.  He grunted and tore himself away from the wall, losing a few hairs to the sap he left behind.  He dug in his coat pocket and retrieved Mabel's grappling hook.  He bent beside Fiddleford who was still sprawled on his stomach on the ground and looped his arm around his waist.      
  
"Whoa hey!  Git' offa me!"  Fiddleford batted at Stan's arm as he lifted him from the ground and draped him over his shoulder like a rag.    
  
The next flash of light gave Stan just enough time to aim for a stalagmite protruding from the even ground above.  He pulled the trigger and the hook caught.  
  
"Oh."  Fiddleford stopped fighting, inwardly pouting that he hadn't thought of the idea first.    
  
Stan reeled the line in, lifting them up the incline with it.  He nearly tossed Fiddleford up to the run of even land.  Grudgingly, Fiddleford braced himself against the stalagmites and lowered his hand to help Stan up.  He groaned, his back snapping and popping under Stan's weight.  "Ugh!  Why do you have to be so heavy?!"    
  
"It's muscle!  Workin' on a ship ain't easy, ya know!" He said, lifting himself to his feet.  "Maybe I should be asking you why you got such wimpy noodle arms, possum breath!"  
  
Fiddleford glared in his direction.  Even if the darkness hid his annoyance at least expressing it made him feel slightly better.  He let out a squawk as a hand patted the side of his coat and dug into his pocket.  "What was it you were sayin' 'bout personal space earlier?" He muttered as Stan fished Ford's phone out of his pocket.  His hand flew to cover his eyes as the led on its back pierced the darkness.    
  
Stan tilted Ford's phone down to light the rocky ground.  "We should be able to walk the rest of the way.  It was just that last slope that was bad."    
  
The two didn't speak as Fiddleford scampered across the ground, his nose nearly brushing against it from time to time.  Stan rolled his eyes every time he picked up a seemingly random rock and sniffed or even tasted it.   _This is it?  After all these years, this is what my brother chooses to have feelings for?_    
  
A bleating ribbit silenced his thoughts, sending a cold chill through him.  The light from Ford's phone splashed across the floor and walls as he searched for the source.  About two yards to his right, a large stone appeared to move.  "It's just your imagination playing tricks on you Stan," he muttered to himself.     
  
"No it ain't," Fiddleford said, prodding the stone with one finger, his hand cupped in front of it.    
  
Stan covered his mouth to muffle a yelp as it jumped onto Fiddleford's hand.  The white bearded scientist held the quivering creature up close to Stan's face.  "Get that thing away from me!  I swear it's lookin' right at me but it's got no eyes!"  
  
"Yup.  We studied these back in the day," he petted the brown creature's head with one finger and it made a sound like a gargling purr.  "They can't see a lick 'a light but they can feel vibrations and heat.  We called 'em sensiti-toads.  Get it?  Because they're-"    
  
"Sensitive.  Yeah I get it..."  The disgusted curl of Stan's lip slackened and slipped between his teeth as he stifled his urge to chuckle at the pathetic pun.   _He and Poindexter have more history than I thought..._  He snorted to himself.   _Stop it, Stan.  You're not jealous of- of that._  He glowered at McGucket as he crouched, his legs bowed outward, and kneaded a dollop of sticky sap between his fingers.    
  
The air thickened, heat hanging oppressively over them as they neared the cavern where Stan and the Kids had been imprisoned like flies on flypaper.  Stan wiped sweat from his forehead with his coat sleeve, forgetting about the goo smeared across it.  He pried it away from his forehead with an "oof," and stumbled forward, nearly colliding with McGucket.    
  
An amber glow grew brighter around the next bend in the widening tunnel.  Fiddleford sped up, nearly running to the steamy opening at the end.  "So this is it, then?" he said as he looked over the mossy cavern.  He dipped one finger into a bubbling hot spring near the tunnel's opening and pulled it back sharply, shaking it.  "I dunno what I expected outta that.  'Course it's boiling hot," he muttered to himself.  His eyes lifted, taking in the sight of the glowing mushrooms clinging to the cavern walls and the amber sap coating the ceiling and oozing down the far wall.  "Looks like the hot springs must keep this stuff all melty."    
  
"Yeah so what are we gonna do now?  Even if we draw that thing in here, this stuff won't keep it trapped.  If me 'n the kids got out of it, that creature certainly will."  
  
"We gotta find where this stuff is coming from.  If we can bust it open and create a flood to encase it, maybe we can get that critter to a colder part of the cave so the sap'll harden like it did on them dino-ma-saurs.  It'll at least buy us some time ta' figure out a more permi-na-nent solution."  
  
"So...  We're going to make a weird science-y creature popsicle?"  
  
"Yeah pretty much.  I think I can build somethin' ta' move it outta the stuff left over from when we excavated the t-rex for the Shacktron.  I just have ta figure out how to find where that is now..."  His voice trailed off as his eyes shifted between three tunnels leading out of the fungus and sap coated cavern.    
  
"Right.  OK you do that.  I'm gonna text the kids," Stan said, his mind weighed down with worry over his brother.  He prodded the cracked screen of Ford's phone and opened his recent messages to search for an existing thread with Dipper.  His lips parted in a flabbergasted gasp as he saw the first name on the list.   _Stanley "One Punch" Pines_.  He smiled at the flattering nickname.   _He-  Oh man he really does see me as a hero.  And I-_ Stan thought about Ford's nickname on his former phone.   _I still call him Poindexter.  And nerd.  But I didn't know it was hurting him when I said those things!  I was just...  teasing affectionately..._ He tried to convince himself.  _But I guess it's not very affectionate if he doesn't feel the same way about it.  Stupid oversensitive owl..._ He blinked back tears as his mind bargained, _hey uh..._   _whatever god or spirits may or may not exist, if you make sure he lives through this I'll try not to tease him as much, alright?_  
  
****        
  
Dipper rushed through his shower, barely getting all of the sticky sap untangled from his hair.  He clomped down the stairs, shoving his arms into a green quilted coat and yelling to Soos, "I'm ready let's go!"  
  
"Whoa there, dude.  Nice fashion statement.  Should I start wearing my shirt like that too?"  Soos asked reaching for the hem of his T-shirt as if he was considering the idea.    
  
"What?"  Dipper's eyebrows flattened as he realized he'd put his Mystery Shack shirt on inside out.  "Oh."  He flipped it the right way and threw his coat on again.  "Alright now I'm ready."  
  
"What about your hat?"  Soos asked, reaching into the pocket of his cargo pants for his keys.    
  
"Got it!"  Dipper grabbed Wendy's hat, a little sap spotted but still wearable, from the hook by the door.     
  
"Here, eat this on the way," Soos grabbed a paper bag from the counter and handed it to Dipper.      
  
The thought was sweet but there was no way Dipper could stomach any food.  Instead, he climbed into Soos's truck and helped him spread an old drop cloth he'd found in the downstairs closet over the sticky sap staining the front seat.  He climbed in and gently lifted his great uncle's glasses from the dashboard.  He hadn't realized until they were halfway to the shack that he was still holding them.  He'd left them in the truck so he wouldn't forget to bring them back to the hospital in his mentally scrambled state.  He held them gingerly, staring at them for a moment, hoping to see them perched on his grunkle's face again soon, hoping to see them slip down his nose at their next anomaly sighting or to find them tilted awkwardly the next time he fell asleep in the middle of a project.  As the truck moved forward, he tucked them into the inside pocket of his coat for safe keeping.      
  
His eyes lifted to the road ahead, his legs bouncing as Soos drove through the darkness.  The plastic drop cloth beneath him crinkled with every movement.  He tried to ignore thoughts of the bloodied mess on the back seat, tried to focus on his breathing but the heat pouring from the dashboard was stifling and the air was too dry.  His seat belt felt like it was choking him, pressing against his neck.  He tugged at it holding it down over his chest.  It snapped back as he shifted, the need for fresh air guiding his hands to the window crank.  He rolled it down nearly all the way, trying to breathe in crisp fresh air, sweat soaking through the furry hat Wendy insisted he keep.    
  
He didn't remember the whole ride, it felt like a blur of passing headlights and a flurry of snowflakes against the windshield.  He ran into the waiting room where Melody sat watching Mabel pace between two rows of faded black chairs, her feet keeping time with the anchorman muttering on the TV mounted in the far corner.      
  
"Any news yet?  Did I miss anything?  Is he okay?"  Dipper blurted, his shoes nearly leaving skid marks on the terrazzo as he screeched to a stop.    
  
Mabel shook her head, her eyes swollen and red and her pony tail matted with sap.  "Nothing yet."    
  
"Come on, Mabel.  Let's go get you cleaned up," Melody said softly, her hand on the young teen's shoulder.    
  
She wanted to protest but her eyes stung and her head hurt.  Thanks to the stickiness of her hair and clothes, she couldn't bring herself to sit despite her feet aching, begging her to do so.  She knew couldn't keep going like that.  "A-alright.  But...  but you promise to call if you hear anything, right?"  
  
"Promise."  Dipper nodded.    
  
"You got it little lady-dude," Soos added.    
  
Mabel sat in silence for the entire ride home, her eyes fixed on her hands folded in her lap.  If Melody spoke to her, she didn't hear it.  She felt as if the world around her moved without her.  One of her favorite people in the world was still underground in a cave, trying to trap a nightmare of a monster.  Another was in unknown condition in an emergency room.   _This was not how vacation was supposed to go!  This wasn't how today was supposed to go!  Fiddleford was supposed to confess his feelings and Grunkle Ford was supposed to say "Really?  Me too" and we were all going to live happily ever after!_ Tears streamed down her cheeks again.    
  
Melody eased her foot onto the brake.  The headlights Illuminated the Mystery Shack's porch.  "Alright, we're here," she said, her voice light and sympathetic.    
  
Mabel's head lowered, her words barely audible, "It's my fault isn't it?"    
  
"Mabel?"  
  
"I'm the one who told McGucket to come over today.  I'm the one who asked everyone to leave the house so he and Grunkle Ford could have some time alone..."  
  
"Whoa whoa...  Mabel, I'm not sure exactly what happened today but I don't think it's your fault.  Come on, let's go inside.  You'll feel a lot better after a shower and maybe a bite to eat.  Besides, we'll make it back to the hospital quicker that way, right?"  
  
She nodded, wiping her eyes.  She showered on autopilot, her mind focused on her Grunkle Stan, wondering if he was hurt or if he and McGucket had managed to capture the shape shifter yet.  She wondered if they were shouting in victory, if they were trying to find their way out of the caves, if they were lying somewhere hurt and unable to call for help.  She'd somehow finished up and gotten dressed without registering the movements.  She wasn't even entirely sure what she was wearing.  It was something Melody had picked out for her.  _Oh._   Jeans and a purple sweater with a rainbow striped heart on the front.  She was absently wringing her hair in a towel when the phone rang, slicing through her haze.  She dropped it and ran to the door opening it to listen.    
  
"Alright.  Oh that's good.  I'll let her know right away."  
  
_Good?  Good!  Something's good!_   Her heart soared as she listened to the stairs creaking under Melody's feet.   
  
"Mabel?  That was Soos on the phone.  He said Dipper just got a message from Stan saying they're still in the caves and that they have a plan to trap whatever it was that was terrorizing you today."    
  
"Ahhh!  They're alright then?  They're still alive and safe and breathing?" Mabel rambled.    
  
"Yes I imagine that means they're fine."  
  
"Good good good!  I-  Now we just need to know that Grunkle Ford is going to be alright.  I think I'm almost ready to go back now."  
  
With the pounding in her head easing up, Mabel dug through her suitcases for a clean coat.  She found a burgundy hooded windbreaker and shrugged it over her shoulders leaving her still damp hair tucked under the collar.  She stood to leave but stopped before reaching the attic door.  "Wait!"  She ran back to her bed and pulled her craft supply bag out from underneath.  She lifted a tote bag full of yarn and an unruly unfinished project and swung it over her shoulder.  "I have to figure this mess out.  I have to before it's too late." she muttered to herself.  "I hope it's not already too late."   
  
Mabel felt empty as Melody drove her back to the hospital, as if her head couldn't handle the weight of her emotions and dropped them all.  In contrast to the ride home, she'd never been so aware of being in a vehicle before in her life.  She felt every bump and every turn, felt the forward momentum and the rattles and clunks of the engine.  Every passing streetlight and set of headlights seemed to shine with the brightness of the sun.  She closed her eyes, still seeing the light passing over her eyelids.  The memory of sitting in the back seat with her great uncle's head resting in her lap looped over in her mind.  She couldn't bring herself to look back there.  She didn't want to know how much of his blood had stained the floor and seats or how much sap had peeled away from her hair and clothes and stuck to the leather.    
  
Melody had replaced the goo smudged drop cloth in the front seat with a fresh one, worried more about Mabel staying clean than the state of the seat beneath it.  Guilt welled up in Mabel's mind as her hands grasped the plastic cloth.  "I'm so sorry about Soos's Truck.  We've made it into such a mess tonight," she said in a near whisper.    
  
"That's the last thing you need to be worrying about right now,"  Melody answered, her eyes fixed on the road ahead.  "We'll figure out how to fix it."    
  
Mabel's emotions returned in full force, crashing against each other in her mind.  She tried to clear her head but her memories took a turn for the worst.  The scene from earlier played over in her mind; her great uncle lying motionless in McGucket's arms, his pained breathing as he sat up, the panic in his eyes when he thought Bill was still a threat, the reddened rings of scars encircling his wrists and neck.  She almost gasped audibly as a realization hit her.  _That's it!_   _That's why he still seemed distant after Weirdmageddon.  All this time I thought he didn't like being touched a lot but it was because he was hurt!  
_  
He'd become a lot more physically affectionate after Weirdmageddon, at least compared to before, but the only times he'd actually hugged Mabel and Dipper were when they rescued him and when they were leaving at summer's end.  As for Fiddleford, the two had hugged only once when they reconciled and at that time, adrenaline was running high and he'd probably practically numbed himself to everything other than defeating Bill.  He'd hugged Stan only once in the midst of the chaos as well.  Aside from that, every so often, he'd drape an arm over Stan's shoulders and that was it.  When she and her brother fell asleep against Stan, Ford would lean away.  When they walked close together, he'd trail behind.  When they sat together at the table, he seemed to almost fold in on himself.   _Of course...  He was in pain all that time...  Still healing..._     
  
The light squeal of the brakes as Melody parked pulled Mabel out of her thoughts.  They walked to the emergency room's sliding doors, their feet slipping on the icy sidewalks and snow flurries dusting their heads and shoulders.  Inside, Dipper sat on the edge of a chair between the security desk and a magazine rack.  Soos sat across from him, staring blankly up at the TV.    
  
"Any news yet?"  Mabel asked.  
  
"No."  Dipper shook his head.  "Nothing yet."  
  
Dipper's words were nearly drowned out by a security guard rushing inside.  "I'm on my way," he spoke into a mouthpiece attached to the wire of his two-way radio.  The electric doors to the emergency ward slid open revealing a commotion beyond.  The guard slipped through and the doors closed again before Dipper could make out what was happening.    
  
"What's going on back there?" He asked, worry welling up in his stomach.    
  
"I don't know.  There were so many people yelling at once I couldn't tell what anyone was saying," Mabel answered, staring at the door as she sank onto the chair beside her brother.    
  
"Oh man...  I have a really bad feeling about this."  Dipper's fingers tapped against his knees.    
  
Mabel removed the end of her ponytail from between her teeth and replied, "Normally I'd say you're just being paranoid but this time, I feel it too."        


	11. New Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford and Stan try to put aside their differences to work on their plan to contain the shape shifter. Fiddleford makes some interesting new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING - Stan and Fidds have a conversation about daily bodily functions (because of course they do, they're old men who have been through some things) and things get kind of real for a bit. So, possible gross out moment. (Nothing graphic or anything, just thought I'd warn in case.) 
> 
> Sorry again that Stan and Fidds are so salty toward each other here...
> 
> ALSO!!! The lovely kimochiru.tumblr.com made an adorable art piece based on an earlier scene! It's [here](http://kimochiru.tumblr.com/post/147997203610/fiddauthor-fest-day-6-gift-exchange-this-piece) if you'd like to share in the cuteness! Thanks again!!!
> 
> Special thanks to usually-confused.tumblr.com for looking over things for me, to kurojankazu.tumblr.com for helping me clean up some of the dialogue, and to minimysterytwins.tumblr.com, weirdmageddon.tumblr.com, and halcon24.tumblr.com for moral support!

The air inside the cavern was thick and stagnant like the miasma of a swamp in the middle of August.  Fiddleford thought he might need to evolve gills to continue breathing the sulfur scented steam rising from the boiling hot springs.  His eyes lifted, widening in awe at the amber drenched ceiling and the curtain of sap oozing down the wall.  He wondered aloud, "Where is all this goopedy-go comin' from?"    
  
Tearing his eyes from the cracked screen of his brother's phone, Stan glanced over the glistening ceiling and pointed to a crevasse between three dripping stalactites.  "I think it's coming from up there.  'Least, it was drippin' on me earlier from there."  His gaze snapped back to the dark screen clutched between his hands.  It had been less than a minute since he'd sent Dipper a message to ask if Ford had made it to the hospital, but every moment spent waiting for a reply ravaged his mind with terrifying thoughts.  He tapped the button on the side, anxious he might have missed a message in the fraction of a second he'd looked away.  A photo of the kids and himself stared back at him.  No notifications.    
  
"Oh I see it."  Fiddleford said, watching a dollop drip from the leftmost stalactite like honey from a spoon.  "Yeah, I think we can bust that open."  He lifted Ford's blaster from his pocket and aimed it at the oozing crack in the cavern ceiling assuring a clean shot was possible.  
  
Ford's phone vibrated, buzzing audibly in Stan's hands and causing his heart to plummet and soar all at once.    
  
Fiddleford's hands lowered, Ford's blaster hanging slack in his grasp.  He licked his lips nervously as he awaited the news.    
  
Stan read Dipper's message aloud.  "We're at the hospital now but I haven't heard how he is yet."  He looked up to find Fiddleford's brows furrowed and his shoulders drooped in worry.  He cringed at the sight of his brother's drying blood smeared across his snowy beard and smudged on his coat sleeves.  "Not much to go on there but I guess it's better than bad news," he sighed, uncertain of whether he was trying to comfort himself or his twin's friend.  Crush?  Boyfriend?  He wasn't sure what to call him and all of those terms sounded sour to his mind when applied to the scarecrow of a man standing in front of him.            
  
"Yeah.  I guess yer right," Fiddleford answered with a sigh.   
  
Stan typed back to Dipper, "Let me know if you hear anything.  If he takes a turn for the worst, I don't give a $@&# about this creature.  We'll be there right away."  
  
Fiddleford pocketed Ford's blaster and wiped the sweat from his brow.  He didn't notice Stan creep away as he bent to examine the shadow-soaked moss coating the floor like a plush afghan.  He glanced up at the three darkened tunnels before him, trying to discern which might lead to the cavern where prehistoric marvels had been frozen in sap like a sticky museum exhibit.    
  
He grunted to himself, annoyed that he couldn't make out much of anything in the shadows.   _C'mon McGucket.  You're resourceful, right?_   A glance around the cave gave him the idea he needed.  He scampered on all fours to the mushroom infested wall.  He squinted, holding his forefinger to his lips as he pondered their bioluminescent nature.  "Sorry buddy," he apologized as he gently plucked one with a palm-sized cap from the wall.  It flickered, protesting the tugging motion at its stem but broke away in one piece, roots and all.  "Don't worry, I'll replant you when I'm done."  Its glow steadied as if satisfied by the promise.  Its light was dimmer than before, like a flashlight with a dying battery, but still better than nothing.  He waved the mushroom over the moss, illuminating it with a faint yellow glow.  "Ah-ha!  Stan I think I found the way."  A trail of disheveled and thinned moss lead to the center cavern.  "Stan?  Where'd ya git off to?  Come on, it's this way."   
  
"Hey don't rush me, possum-breath.  I'm comin'," Stan grumbled from behind a cluster of stalagmites.   
  
While Fiddleford waited, he shuffled the toe of his boot in the moss between the left and center tunnels creating a dent large enough to replant the glowing mushroom.  He cringed at himself for a moment as he considered whether it would be poisonous and wondered what it would taste like roasted with some butter and garlic.   _No.  You have proper food to eat back home now!  Besides, it's not worth the risk_  he thought as he remembered the results of eating other questionable things over he years.   _And I did promise..._  He shook his head, wondering why it suddenly mattered to him that he keep a promise to a mushroom.  Regardless, he bent and gently placed it in the hole he'd dug.  Its glow brightened as he rearranged the plush moss over its roots.  "There.  Now you have more space ta' grow, little guy.  Thanks fer the help."  He patted its cap gently as if praising the glowing fungus.    
  
"Alright, what's goin' on?"  Stan asked as he stepped around the stalagmites, his vision focused downward.    
  
Fiddleford's eyebrow twitched as he heard the zip of Stan's pants.  "Really?  Did you really have ta' do that in here?"    
  
"What?  I've been holding it for- I dunno a few hours now or somethin'."  He waved his hand dismissively.  "You can't tell me you never had to improvise a bit."  He pointed at the disgruntled hillbilly.        
  
"I may have lived a good portion 'a my life in the junkyard but I still had a place for that."  Fiddleford said with a curled lip.  He motioned for Stan to follow him into the blinding darkness of the center tunnel and trotted ahead at a brisk pace.       
  
"No way."  Stan snorted, jogging to keep up with him.  He tapped the screen of Ford's phone, turning the flashlight on again.  "You're tellin' me you were broke and living in a junkyard but you still had a pot to-?  Ugh!"  He pinched his nose, his eyes squished shut in annoyance, glasses lifting to his forehead.      
  
"Well sorta.  I mean it was more like a bucket in an outhouse I rigimatized outta some old scrap metal."  Fiddleford scratched his head, his hat tipping to the side.      
  
"Geez even this guy had it better than I did with his fancy bathroom."  Stan muttered.      
  
"What do ya' mean?"  Fiddleford asked, turning toward Stan as his pace slowed, one eyebrow raised in genuine concern.      
  
"Let's just say you get creative about things when you live in your car for a while.  There's nothing worse than having to open the door on a cold night and go find a place for that..."  Stan shuddered at the thought.    
  
"Oh.  So before ya' came here..."     
  
"I traveled a lot.  Got arrested a lot.  Lived in my car for a while.  Then a hotel for a bit."  Stan summarized with a shrug.  "Chewed my way out of a trunk once.  That was interesting."    
  
"Pterodactyl here."  Fiddleford said with a bitter laugh.  "Guess I kinda know how it is.  I lived in a hotel for a bit after my wife kicked me out and before the manager kicked me outta th'are.  Then I moved ta' the junkyard.  Some nights I didn't wanna leave the stove in my shanty ta' take care 'a things- Wait.  Hold up."  Fiddleford stopped, his boots squeaking against the stone, as a thought crossed his mind.    
  
"Oof!"  Stan nearly collided with him and stumbled back a step.  "What?  You wanna warn me when you're gonna just put the brakes on like that?"  
  
"I did warn ya'.  Anyway, we need ta use somethin' ta be able to find our way back and forth real quick-like."  Fiddleford said, tapping one finger to his lower lip.  
  
"Hmm."  Stan pondered, stopping himself from rubbing his spider silk encrusted beard.  "The last time something like this happened it was when that pterodactyl took Waddles from the yard.  Mabel made him a sweater and it unraveled and we followed the yarn trail.  Think we could do the same thing with your scarf and vest?"  
  
"But she ka-nitted these for me..." Fiddleford held up the scarf's tail pressing it against his face partly in appreciation for the gift and partly for the intertwining scents of machine oil and cinnamon soaked into the fibers.  Though no answer had been spoken to his earlier confession, Ford's desperate maneuvers to protect him from the brunt of an explosion spoke volumes.  Even if it turned out that Ford didn't return the full extent of his feelings, Fiddleford was flabbergasted that he cared so much that he'd risk his life for him.  He could have let go of the memento with less heartache if he was certain of Ford's condition, if he wasn't wondering whether he'd ever see him alive again or not, but the memory of his weight leaning against him as all strength drained from his body haunted his mind.     
  
The thought of their ordeal, the vivid lingering vision of Ford struggling against his own mind as 210 provoked his deepest fears, strengthened his resolve to assure the creature would never hurt anyone again.  With a deep sigh he unfurled the scarf from his neck and found the yarn tail woven into its edge.  He began unraveling it, leaving a trail of alternating orange and red yarn as they walked.    
  
Stan held Ford's phone up illuminating the tunnel but failed to watch where he was stepping.  A crunch sounded from below his shoe, bouncing off the walls and tapering off into the darkness.  He lowered the light to find the remnants of his own phone shattered on the rocky ground.  "Oh.  Welp, guess it's a good thing I got the protection plan after all.  And here I thought the guy was exaggerating when he said I could bring back pieces and get a replacement..."  He gathered the broken bits and funneled them into his coat pocket.    
  
"How do ya figure that got th'are?"  Fiddleford asked.  
  
"Probably when that thing first went after the kids."  Stan shivered at the thought.  "It took my form and tricked them."  
  
"That's terrib-ible."  Fiddleford moved forward again, unraveling more of his scarf's knits and purls.  "They're good kids."  
  
"Yeah.  Yeah they are."  Stan smiled.  At least there was one thing about the gap-toothed hillbilly that didn't make his skin crawl.  Well, maybe a few.  He couldn't believe it but he was actually feeling a small amount of sympathy for McGucket and his years spent in the haze of memory loss, practically homeless in the dump, shunned by his family and mocked by the townspeople.    
  
He walked one step behind him in awkward silence for a good five minutes trying to convince himself to give him a chance.   _For Ford.  You can do this for him, right?_   His heart flipflopped while his mind wandered into dark spaces.   _Except if he...  No!  He's going to be fine.  I promise to try.  Just...  please let him be alright._   He pushed the invasive thoughts aside, his mind drifting back to McGucket's junkyard years.  With a mental grunt, he decided to try to learn more about the bow-legged engineer his brother had landed himself in the hospital for.  "So uh, living in the junkyard.  That uh-  that must have been rough."  
  
"It wasn't too bad.  I had lots 'a stuff ta' use fer buildin' homicidal robots."  His momentary excitement dwindled to a melancholy confession.  "But...  it did get lonely."  
  
"Yeah.  And it's terrifying...  being so hungry and not knowing where your next meal is going to come from..."  Stan shook his head.  "But that's over now.  It's in the past for both of us or- er.  All of us.  You're filthy rich now and I got a boat and my brother back and me and him are gonna make sure neither of us ends up homeless again.  I hope."   _No Stop.  He'll be fine._   His mind swapped one catastrophic thought process for another and the words "neither of us" looped back at him.  He'd thought a lot about what might have happened to his brother on the other side of the portal.  Somewhere in his mind he had always wondered if his twin had a place to stay or food to eat.  He'd often wondered if his brother had spent three times as long as he had as a homeless drifter.  The wanted poster he'd found had practically confirmed his suspicions.  "He always did have to one-up me," Stan muttered as a joke to himself, trying to lighten his mood.   
  
"What was that?  Fiddleford asked, wondering what he'd missed.  
  
"Aw nuthin'.  It's just...  Ford always outdoes me."  Stan laughed dryly.  "He's smarter, he's more fit, he's cleaner, and then I find out that sure, I'm a wanted man banned in multiple states but he's a wanted man banned in multiple dimensions.  I'm homeless and wandering the world for ten years, he's homeless and wandering the multiverse for thirty.  And here he thought I was the bum!"          
  
Stan's attempt at humor fell flat.  Fiddleford didn't muster so much as a grin in return for his forced laugh.  Instead he tilted his head and attempted to offer some insight.  "He didn't think you were a bum.  Not really.  He certainly tried to but I saw the scribblins' he scribbled in that journal a' his.  I caught him lookin' at that photo 'a you two as kids more'n once.  He missed ya' even if he couldn't admit it."    
  
"Y-yeah?  Did...  Did he ever talk about me?"  Stan sounded almost happy.      
  
"Rarely."  
  
"Oh."  His half smile sagged.    
  
"Ya really did hurt him, ya' know-"    
  
Stan cut off Fiddleford's speech with a throaty "Ugh".  He raised his free hand, fingers spread and stiffly curled, shaking it as his exasperation sputtered out.  "If this is about that science project of his again, I'm tired of hearin' about it.  It was just a dumb accident!  Haven't I paid for it enough already?"    
  
"Have ya' ever tried apologizin'?"  Fiddleford asked.    
  
"Why would I?  It wasn't my fault!  It was an accident!"  Stan's fist balled at his side.  The light from Ford's phone fluttered as the device shook in his hand.  "That stupid project of his ruined my life!  He left me!  He turned his back on me!"  
  
"Can ya' really blame him?  Accident or no ya' hurt him.  He was humiliated in front of the people he looked up to.  He lost what he thought was his chance to prove he could be more'n an outcast."  Fiddleford's words spilled out whether he wanted them to or not.  He was too tired to restrain himself; tired of seeing Ford shoulder so much guilt, tired of hearing him apologize for everything, even things that weren't his fault, and tired of knowing others made mistakes too and had never apologized to him, including himself.   _He doesn't even remember...  But I promise I'll come clean and apologize if he makes it through this..._  
  
Stan shot a derisive look to McGucket.  All at once he regretted feeling any sort of sympathy or connection to him as the snaggle toothed man prodded him with the past. He doubted he could put up with him any longer and lashed out in the only way he could think of, trying to defend himself, "We were supposed to be a team!  He shouldn't 'a-"  
  
"Shouldn't 'a what?  Been annoyed that you goofed off all the time then expected to be able to cheat off of him?  Had aspirations?  Wanted to prove himself to a world that treated him like he was just a freak?  Had some small shred a' confidence among the worthlessness he felt?  Wanted to find a place where he felt like he fit in?"  
  
"He shouldn't a' left me!  Why wasn't I enough?"    
  
Fiddleford blinked, taken aback by the gruffly shouted answer.  It was true that he didn't know what to expect, even as his own words tumbled out, but this?  He mulled over the answer for a moment.  His expression softened as he said, "There it is."  
  
"What?  What is this a psych evaluation?  I've already been institutionalized once I don't need you poking at my brain too!"  
  
"Oh no not at all.  I took some classes back inna' day but I ain't no per-fessional.  Just seems ta me that maybe ya' should ask him that.  And maybe ask yerself too."    
  
The phone buzzed in Stan's hands sending a shiver through him.  He hesitated to look.  With one eye he glanced at the screen.  A message from Mabel's phone.  The gnomes?  Had they really figured out how to send him a message?  Sure enough the message read, "We're following the monster.  It's looking for you and, hoo boy, is it angry.  Are you ready yet?"    
  
With his tongue sticking out, thumbs struggling to touch the right letters, he typed back, "We need more time."  He looked up to McGucket and relayed the information in a cold tone, "We need to hurry things up.  That walking nightmare is on the move."    
  
"Fine."  Fiddleford said a little snappier than he'd intended.  
  
"Fine."  Stan huffed back.  He walked in sulking silence, annoyed at himself for actually contemplating taking the hillbilly's advice.  Maybe he did need to ask Ford.  Maybe he did need to-  _No.  He broke his promise!  He hurt me!  And that was a stupid accident and he just let dad kick me out!  He just...  he...  just...  was hurt...  I hurt him?  I hurt him.  And he was probably as scared as I was...  And it's not like mom did anything to stop dad either.  Even she knew better.  But at least she had the decency to call me sometimes!  Ford never even tried contacting me while I tried-  I tried.  I called but I never had the nerve to talk to him.  And he did contact me eventually.  He called me for help...  And I...  Ugh I hope he's alright..._  
  
While Stan grappled with his thoughts and memories, Fiddleford examined every spiderweb coated crossroads in the caverns, sniffing the ground and pointing out the next tunnel to traverse.  Stan watched vacantly at first, eventually grumbling to himself, trying to convince himself, that the man scampering over rocky inclines and rugged slopes on all fours like a rat was nothing like his brother, that there was no way the two could possibly be compatible.   _There's just no way my brother would fall for this guy._      
  
Fiddleford shivered as he continued forward, swallowing the lump in his throat as his scarf dwindled to the last row of stitches.  He stopped to remove his vest and fidgeted with the hem, looking for the yarn tail.  Once he'd unwoven it and tied it to the kinked yarn from his scarf, he began unraveling the stitches and laying down more of their lifeline.  The air grew colder as he scuttled forward, the stones below his hands freezing his fingers.  His breath puffed out in clouds by the time he spotted a glint of light at the end of the tunnel.    
  
"This way!  I can see it."  Fiddleford pointed to the pale light.  His hands and feet pattered off into the distance as Stan climbed over the uneven ground with slow, cautious steps.  "Ha.  We found it."  Fiddleford released what remained of his vest, setting it on the ground as if mourning its demise.  He lifted his head and gazed around the monumental cavern, surveying the crystallized sap and it's reptilian contents.  The amber stalagmites stretched up to the ceiling as tall as the redwoods above.  Moonlight streamed in through the wide gap in the church's foundation overhead seeming brilliantly bright in comparison to the heavy darkness they'd left behind.  Fiddleford examined the cavern, looking for any active source of dripping sap, hoping for an easier solution to their shape shifter problem.  His foot tapped anxiously as he realized every bit of sap was frozen solid.  He'd have to figure out a way to transport 210 after all.   _But how?_ Even if he could build something with wheels, how could they move it over the rocky ground in the tunnels?   _If only I had more parts...  I could build somethin' proper like a mole bot...  Or an industrial heater to just warm up some of this frozen syrup._  For a moment he considered if going back to the mansion to dig through his supplies was a feasible option.   _No, we don't have time for that..._  
  
Stan stared up at the amber encased giants, the light from Ford's phone flitting across the remnants of their excavation project from over a year ago.  In a smokey puff of breath he asked, "Well, what do you think?  Can we do something with this junk?"  He nearly rubbed the back of his head before remembering the gooey mess of his pony tail and awkwardly dropping his arms to his sides.      
  
"I think I can riggimify somethin outta these leftovers," Fiddleford answered, surveying the remaining pieces of scaffolding and an old overturned mine cart.  "Only problem is, once we catch that hornswagglin' hooligan how are we gonna' pull it back here?"  
  
"I'd say we could try to chip one of these guys out of here," Stan knocked on the frozen sap encasing a stegosaurus.  "But I don't think any of them that would be strong enough would fit through that tunnel."    
  
"Prolly not."  Fiddleford tapped his bearded chin, his gaze drifting toward a pile of leftover supplies.  He rummaged through it finding several lengths of rope, three chisels, and-  "Sweet son of a sow there's ma' lucky blowtorch!  I been lookin' fer you since the end times!"  He picked it up, hugging it to his chest.     
  
"Hey uh.  Is it just me or is it getting brighter in here?"  Stan asked, glancing at a yellow glow that danced across the crystallized and dinosaur filled sap.    
  
"Yeah, it is,"  Fiddleford clutched his blowtorch between both hands and turned toward a shuffling sound, like thousands of tiny feet against the cavern floor.  "Oh.  Oh my."  A glowing mushroom waddled up to him, using its roots as if they were feet.  Five more followed, huddling around his ankles.  Ten, twenty, thirty, he lost count of how many flooded into the cavern and surrounded him.  They rubbed against his boots like cats but made no sound.  He bent down, set his blowtorch aside, and offered his hand to one.  It's leathery cap nudged against it, the frills on its underside tickling his knuckles.  It jumped into his arms nearly knocking him on his backside.  He imagined that if it were a puppy, its tail would be wagging in a blur.   _Mutt-rooms!_  He thought to himself.   _That's what Ford and I woulda' called 'em back in the day._  
  
Stan smacked his forehead.  "You're kidding me, right?  Did you seriously just befriend a herd of sentient glowing mushrooms?"  
  
"Um, maybe?"  Fiddleford couldn't help but laugh as they bounced happily around him.   _I can't wait to see the look on Ford's face when I tell him-_  His thoughts trailed off into a tangle of worry and grief.   _No.  He's gonna be fine and yer gonna tell him all about it and he's gonna want ta come back here an' see fer himself and we'll investigate together, an' he'll sit and draw 'em with his tongue sticking out just like old times..._ He knelt among them and absently twirled his arm, smiling as their caps followed the swirling of his fingers.      
  
"Are you-  Are you actually playing with them?  At a time like this?  Have you lost your mind?"  Stan bit his lip, regretting the words the moment they fell out.    
  
Fiddleford looked up to him with flattened eyebrows.  His head tilted down, hat obscuring his face while he stroked one of the mushrooms' caps with a gentle hand.  "Yeah.  I guess I have."  
  
"I didn't mean that..."  Stan said, "I mean...  I lost mine too, right?  So, heh, no hard feelings?  Right?"  
  
"Sure."  Fiddleford's answer was curt and cold.  He waved his arm sullenly, watching the mushrooms tilt back and forth to follow his motion.  "Hey," he spoke in a brighter cadence, "wait a minute.  Maybe these little guys can help us!  Would you be able to help us move something between here and your home cave?" he asked the mushroom currently settled in his arms, its cap leaning against his beard.  
  
Its cap tipped up and down.    
  
"Did...  Did that mushroom just nod?"  Stan asked.    
  
"I think so.  Whoa whoa!  Hold On!  Sweet sarsaparilla and holy hog snout!  This is perfect!"  Fiddleford leapt to his feet, his leg bouncing up and down in excitement.  "I gots me the solution!  Just give me a minute ta put it all together."  He waded through the sea of mushrooms and crouched beside the overturned mine cart, examining its metal sides and welded seams.    
  
"Is uh- Is there anything I can do to help speed things along?"  Stan asked, tucking Ford's phone into his pants pocket.   
  
"Yeah actually, ya' can start takin' apart that th'ar scaffoldin'.  We're gonna need the planks."  He pointed to the makeshift wooden catwalks still standing from the chaos of Weirdmageddon.    
  
"Okay sure.  Using what, my teeth?"  He asked with a shrug.    
  
Fiddleford reached under his coat and pulled out a hammer as if it was a pack of gum.    
  
"Oh.  Seriously?  You just happen to carry a hammer with you everywhere you go?"  Stan snorted and snatched the hammer from his hand.    
  
"Don't leave home without it these days!"  Fiddleford said, reaching into his coat's interior pocket for a crescent wrench.    
  
"Whatever..."  Stan waved the hammer dismissively.  He swallowed hard as he looked up at the cobbled together scaffolding which seemed to teeter to and fro.   _How am I going to even begin taking it apart?_   He guessed his best chance was to start at the top.  He climbed the ladder, clinging to its sides as the scaffolding swayed.   _Good thing I'm not afraid of heights anymore._  The scaffolding tipped to the left and he hugged the the ladder, pressing his chest against one of its rungs.   _Though I might just pick up that fear again after this!_  Refusing to look down, he set to work.  He dug the hammer's claw under the nails and wrestled them out, tossing them over his shoulder as they came loose.    
  
Fiddleford's ears twitched at the bouncing pings of discarded nails clattering across the cavern floor.  He turned around and asked indignantly, "Hey, what he heck are ya' doing?"  
  
"Taking apart the scaffolding."  Stan wedged the hammer's claw under another nail and popped it out of place, bending it in the process.  He flicked it over his shoulder sending it soaring.  It pinged against the crystilized sap encasing a brontosaurus and clattered to the ground behind an archaeopteryx frozen mid-flap as if it had tried to escape the sap's grip.    
  
"Whoa!  Don't throw away the nails, we need 'em!"  
  
"Well you didn't tell me that."  Stan rolled his eyes.    
  
"I thought it would'a been obvious."  
  
"Oh sure, how am I supposed to know you don't have a couple boxes of nails somewhere in that coat too?!"  Stan's hand circled in rhythm with his snarky words.  
  
"I'll make a mental note to bring some next time,"  Fiddleford retorted, "But for now, save 'em, will ya?"    
  
With narrowed eyes Stan set back to work pulling another nail out.  He pocketed the first two but the third brought a mischievous grin to his face.  He held it up aiming for Fiddleford's hat and flicked it.    
  
Five nails collected in the brim of his hat before he whipped around and said "Will you quit it you old porcupine!"    
  
"Huh?  Who me?  I'm just pullin' nails like you said.  Someone's throwing things around here.  Maybe it's your new buddies."  Stan crossed his arms, feigning innocence.      
  
Fiddleford removed his hat, emptied the bent nails into his palm and huffed, "Stop goofin' off!  And try not to bend them so much."     
  
Stan growled audibly but his protest was cut short.  The scaffolding shook and trembled beneath him wringing a yelp from his throat.    
  
"Oh what now?"  Fiddleford turned to see the mushrooms swarming over the scaffolding like ants on a sugar cube.  "Whoa!"  He scrambled to his feet and dashed to the rickety wooden structure, holding his arms out as if he might try to catch Stan if he fell.    
  
"What the!"  Stan wrapped himself around a two by four, clinging to it as if his life depended on it.  He slammed his eyes shut and grit his teeth as the scaffolding teetered.   _Oh!_  He peeled his eyes open, remembering that Mabel's grappling hook was still in his pocket.  He unwrapped one arm from the plank of wood and reached for his pocket but stopped short as he noticed what the mushrooms were trying to accomplish.    
  
"Hang on!  I'll git' ya down somehow!"  Fiddleford offered, his head turning back and forth to look for some way to keep that promise.    
  
"Wait...  Look,"  Stan said, pointing to the mushrooms.    
  
"Holy cats how are they doin' that?"  Fiddleford smacked his palm to his forehead in astonishment, bending the brim of his hat.    
  
The tapered edges of their caps pried nails from the structure with the precision of a machine.  A chain of glowing yellow passed the loosened boards down to a tidy pile on the ground.    
  
"Amazin'"  Fiddleford stood back, his hands perched on his waist.  "They're like a miniature demolition crew or somethin'."  He bent to pat one on the head, watching as a wave of their illuminated caps lowered Stan to the ground, his arms crossed over his chest and his expression somewhere between annoyance and disbelief.    
  
Stan watched as Fiddleford showed his new friends how to lay out the boards in an arrangement of four large sheets and two smaller ones, like panels of a fence.  That task, however, was where their ability to help ceased.  Their caps may have been useful for removing nails but were worse than worthless for hammering them back in again.  Stan was almost happy to be called upon for assistance again, though his dismissive "meh" hid it quite effectively.    
  
This time, rather than giving vague instructions, Fiddleford showed him what needed to be done and marked each place where a nail was required.  This time, when Fiddleford took a break from blasting the mine cart with his blowtorch to look over Stan's work, he clapped a hand on his shoulder and said "Perfect!  Thanks."  
  
Stan couldn't suppress a sheepish smile.    
  
Before resuming his flame-fueled tinkering Fiddleford asked, "Have you heard anything from the kids yet?  About Ford?"  
  
Stan extracted Ford's phone from his pocket to see nothing more than a message from the Gnomes.  "Are you done yet?  I don't even know where we are anymore.  This place is like the inside of a sponge."    
  
With a heavy sigh he said, "No. Nothing yet."  He sat cross legged on the stone floor shivering from the sudden lack of movement and the quickly chilling sweat soaking though his coat.  He typed a message to Dipper asking, "Any news yet?"    
  
He felt a nudge at his arm as he awaited a reply.  One of the smaller mushrooms pushed its cap against his elbow gently.  With an incredulous huff, he petted it as if he was scratching waddles behind his ear.  He found the leathery feel of its cap under his fingers and the way it tilted and moved in appreciation of the gesture began to soothe his horrific thoughts and the tension rising in his gut over the task ahead of them.  His brother's phone buzzed in his hand, jolting his heart.  He swiped the screen without thinking, desperate to read the reply.  "No word yet.  We're still waiting."  
  
Stan looked up from the screen to find a growing pile of presumably sleeping mushrooms around him.  Fiddleford stood over his mine cart project looking satisfied with the results, a pile of crude metal rectangles with a curve at the center of each and a hole on each end.  He turned to Stan, a solemn look washing over his face, seeming to drag his wrinkles down.  "Any news yet?"  
  
"No.  They're still waiting.  But I guess that means he's still alive..."


	12. Plans and Improvisation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Fiddleford confront the shape shifter in a final showdown but not everything goes as planned. The kids are given nothing but vague information about Ford. When they're finally allowed to visit him, they're shocked by what they see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No extra warnings this time, just the ones already listed in the general warnings. 
> 
> Sorry no art again. Maybe next time? 
> 
> Special thanks to usually-confused.tumblr.com and kurojankazu.tumblr.com for looking over things for me and to minimysterytwins.tumblr.com, weirdmageddon.tumblr.com, and halcon24.tumblr.com for moral support!

Exhausted from a day of fighting a Pterodactyl, being knocked out and held captive in sticky sap, saving the kids by swinging through a cavern suspended from a grappling hook, traipsing around a labyrinth of caverns in his underwear, seeing his brother fight against his own mind and use himself as a human shield in an explosion, traversing rocky tunnels and passages for miles (again), and finally, nailing together six fence-like sheets of wood for a project he didn't quite understand yet but that was supposedly going to capture the creature responsible for his horrendous day, Stan finally sat down.  Surrounded by a sea of snoozing sentient mushrooms, he clutched his brother's phone in one hand and scratched the cap of one of the friendly fungi absently with the other.  Exhausted didn't even begin to describe the ache in his muscles and joints, the heaviness of his eyelids, or the annoyance of sitting on the crystals of sap frozen to the seat of his pants which crunched and shattered under his weight.    
  
He shivered partly from the frigid stone beneath him and partly from the ice cube of sap tugging at his pony tail, but mostly from anticipation of awaiting a status update on Ford's condition.  The phone buzzed and he jumped as if woken from a deep sleep.  He swiped the screen and frowned at Dipper's reply, a feeling of numbness sinking into his stomach.    
  
"No word yet.  We're still waiting."  
  
Stan looked up from the screen to find Fiddleford standing over his mine cart project looking satisfied with the results, a pile of crude metal rectangles with a curve at the center of each and a hole on each end.  He turned to Stan, a solemn look washing over his face, worry wrinkling the corners of his eyes.  "Any news yet?"  
  
"No,"  Stan answered, "They're still waiting.  But I guess that means he's still alive."  
  
"I guess," Fiddleford said, lifting his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow.  "Well, let's get this thing done so we can git there to see for ourselves."   He set back to work, attaching his crudely created eyelets to the wooden panels, their curves protruding outward.  After attaching four rows of three eyelets to the first fence-like panel, he lifted four lengths of rope and handed them to Stan.  
  
Stan's eyes widened as he understood what Fiddleford had in mind.      
  
"Can you thread these ropes through-"  
  
Stan interrupted with a wave of his hand, "Yeah yeah, I got this.  They're a little rough around the edges but these are just like the pad eyes on our boat.  You're aimin' to create something like lines of fairleads to run the ropes through, right?"  
  
"Yup, pretty much," Fiddleford answered, and set to work on the next panel.    
  
Their fungus friends continued to snooze while the two worked late into the night, rubbing the sleep from their eyes, exchanging yawns, and commenting on how they'd give up an arm for a pot of fresh coffee.  Finally, they set to testing out the collapsible makeshift cage they'd cobbled together.  A square panel sat at the center of four rectangular ones, radiating out from it like the arms of a plus sign.  A second square panel rested beside the left most panel, loosely connected to it by a set of two ropes which ran through two rows of eyelets on the rectangular left and right panels and the square center one.    
  
"Alright guys," Fiddleford announced to the snoozing mushrooms, "We're gonna need your help to test this rig-a-ma-jig out."    
  
Their caps tilted and circled, their stems stretching as they roused.    
  
"Can you lift these side panels," Fiddleford pointed to the four rectangular pieces, "then get this piece up to the top?" He pointed to the leftmost square.    
  
Their caps nodded and the mushrooms set to work.  The rectangular sides lifted on their short ends forming a crate around the center square panel.  Fiddleford and Stan tugged at the four ropes fed through the eyelets surrounding the crate, running in parallel with the ground.  As the mushrooms set the top into place, Fiddleford grabbed hold of one of the two remaining ropes which ran around the crate perpendicularly to the ground and began tying it in place.    
  
"Whoa, hold up there," Stan said, tugging at his last knot, the one closest to the ground. "Try it this way."  He pulled the ropes from Fiddleford's hands and in a blur of a twist, tied a half hitch knot.  He pulled the knot's standing end, bracing himself against the crate with his foot.  The rope slid through the eyelets tightening the loop around the crate.  In another flash of movement, he tied both ends together in a simple overhand knot, securing the rope's tension.  Fiddleford watched as he did the same to the second rope in less than three seconds.    
  
"That's purdy impressive," Fiddleford said.  "That settles it.  Yer gonna tie this thing together once we got 210 trapped inside."    
  
"Uh, OK.  Sure."  Stan said, suppressing a grin.    
  
Fiddleford stepped back to look over their cobbled together crate.  "Welp, it may not be the fanciest or high-tech-iest thing but sometimes the situation calls for good ol' fashioned ingenuity."  
  
"You really think this will work?"  Stan asked, brushing his hands off, partly frozen crystals of sticky residue melting and peeling off into pill-shaped shavings.    
  
"Yup!  We'll bring it to that sticky ol' cave and lay it out flat under that sap leak then bust open that crack and release the goopedy-goo!  If my calcuma-lations are right, it'll flow out fast enough to immobilizi-ma-tate 210 but it's thick enough that we'll be able to reassemble the crate around it before it floods out into a complete mess."  
  
"Well then, let's go get it over with."  Stan shrugged.    
  
The army of ambulatory mushrooms carried Fiddleford's crate on a carpet of their glowing caps.  With their light illuminating the way, Fiddleford and Stan lead the pack, following the yarn trail back to the sweltering and sticky cavern Stan had been held hostage in earlier.  They untied Stan's knots and laid out the crate's sides, positioning what Fiddleford had dubbed "the sap trap" beneath the oozing crevasse in the ceiling.  After Fiddleford quadruple checked the rigging on the ropes, he and Stan began draping moss over the panels, thoroughly hiding them.    
  
Overheated and huffing to breathe in the soggy air, they stood back, hands perched on their hips and looked over their handiwork.    
  
"210'll never see it comin'" Fiddleford said.  "Guess we gotta let the gnomes know we're ready."       
  
Stan's tongue stuck out of the side of his mouth as he typed out the message.  After a minute and a half, the phone buzzed with the reply.  
  
"It's about time!  We're exhausted from tailing this wrecking ball of a monster!"  
  
Stan translated the message to Fiddleford, "Alright, they're on their way.  I guess now we wait."  
  
"Actually," Fiddleford drawled, holding up a finger and wagging it as if trying to decide how to phrase his next thought.  "Now we gotta decide who's gonna be the bait."  
  
"Bait?  Oh no!  I saw what that thing does to people, it ain't gonna be me!"  Stan backed away, both hands lifted, physically pushing the idea away.    
  
"It's already gotten its claws too deep into my mind today."  Fiddleford shook his head with a shiver.    
  
"How about we flip a coin.  Heads I win, tails you lose," Stan suggested.      
  
"Alright."  
  
Stan fished around in his pants pocket and produced a weather-worn quarter.  He flicked it in the air, caught it and slapped it against his hand.  He revealed the results to Fiddleford with a wry grin.  Tails, you lose.    
  
Fiddleford's eyebrow twitched.  "You use a trick coin or somethin'?"    
  
"Are you kidding? I don't have one on me right now- I mean trick coin?  What?"  
  
"Hey wait..."  Fiddleford pursed his lips as he realized exactly how Stan had rigged the game.  "That's not fair, you-"  
  
The cavern floor rumbled and their hearts dropped to their stomachs.    
  
"Fine I'll be the bait," Fiddleford conceded, his hands trembling as he realized they were out of time to bicker.  "Here."  Fiddleford handed Ford's brown, triangular barreled weapon to Stan.  "Hide behind those stalagmites and when that critter reaches this spot," he instructed as he backed into the center of his trap.  "You blast the ever lovin' daylights outta that leak."  Fiddleford turned to the herd of mushrooms whose caps tilted curiously as they awaited his command.  "You guys take your places on the walls and wait for me to wave my arms like this."  He demonstrated, flailing his arms excitedly over his head.  "Then come on over and help me crate this thing.  Then once Stan's got the knots taken care of, we're gonna need yer help pulling it back to the dino cave."    
  
Stan rolled his eyes in disbelief as the army of fungus nodded and obeyed.  They scrambled up the wall and settled in as if they had never moved.  "Hey!" He snapped, "Why are they helpin' us now but they just sat there when the kids and I were stuck in that goop?!"    
  
"I dunno.  Why?"  Fiddleford turned to look at them as if expecting an answer.  Their caps tilted back and forth as if they wished they could.  "Oh right, sorry guys.  Is it because ya' know what we're tryin'a do here?  Do ya' know we're tryin'a trap shifty?"  
  
In a wave like motion drifting up the wall, they nodded.  
  
"And y'all want it out of yer home just as much as we do..."  
  
The mushrooms nodded again.  
  
"Welp, there ya have it."  Fiddleford shrugged as Stan pinched his nose.    
  
"Ya know, if I Ever write my life story, it'd read like some sorta' sci-fi nonsense."     
  
Stan's words trailed off as the ground shook again, as if a train rattled through the tunnels surrounding them.    
  
"You ready for this?"  Fiddleford asked.  
  
"Yeah."  Stan's lips curled in determination.  "I'm ready to take that thing down for what it put us through today."  
  
"For Ford."  Fiddleford added.  
  
"Yeah.  For Ford."    
  
Stan ducked behind the cluster of Stalagmites, his hands wrapped around Ford's blaster, finger ready to pull the trigger.  Fiddleford hid behind a sprawling fern with fronds nearly the size of his body, his limbs shaking in anticipation.  He breathed deeply, trying to quell the electric twitch of every nerve in his body.      
  
With a rumble like an earthquake, the gnomes, stacked upon each other to form the gnome giant, stumbled backwards into the sticky cave.  It regained its stance and turned, as if surveying its surroundings.  Stan squinted at the light radiating from Mabel's pig-eared phone, illuminating Jeff's face for a moment before disappearing.  The cavern quaked again and Jeff jumped down from his command post and ordered the others to scatter and hide.  His feet pattered across the floor and he dove behind the Stalagmites, landing with a roll beside Stan just as a gargantuan centipede, curled in on itself, tumbled into the cavern like a boulder rolling down the side of a mountain.  It unrolled, it's upper body swiping at the air, fangs splattering clear viscous mucus onto the walls.  Stan covered his ears, Ford's blaster pressed to the side of his head, as it let out a shrill screech and shifted to its true form.  Jeff's body wrapped around Mabel's phone, his limbs shivering in fear.   
  
Fiddleford held his breath, trying to steady the wriggling of his stomach.  With a whimper to himself he willed his feet to move.  He sprinted into the creature's view, wincing as its screech filled his ears.  It's pointed legs scurried across the ground chasing him faster than he could run.  He ducked a swipe from its claws the air pressure nearly blowing his hat off of his head.  He barely dodged a second swipe that shredded at least two new tears into his coat's hem.  Sweat dripped into his eyes and his stomach flipflopped as he made a jump for the center of his trap.    
  
Stan aimed Ford's blaster, his finger poised and ready to shoot.  His heart pounded against his ribs as he watched Fiddleford dodge swipes from the creatures claws.  He held his breath and closed one eye, the other barely squinted open when Fiddleford took the final dive toward the trap.   _NOW!_   His eyes opened, double checking his aim and he squeezed the trigger.    
  
Nothing happened.    
  
_No.  No!_   He squished his finger against the trigger again and again with not even the slightest fizzle of a blast.    
  
"Stan!  Stan, what are you doing?!  Dang it old man, shoot!"  The shape shifter plowed into Fiddleford sending him reeling backwards, his hat flying off of his head and drifting to the ground a few feet away from Stan's stalagmite shelter.     
  
"It's not working!"  Stan shook the weapon and tried again.  Nothing.  He looked up to find Fiddleford sprawled on his back struggling to stop the shape shifter's thickest claw from plunging into his shoulder.  Before he could think things through, his feet carried him toward the struggling duo.  His fist pounded into the gelatinous flesh of the shape shifter's shoulder dealing about as much damage as a mosquito bite.  His eyes widened as the creature turned to him, globs of drool dripping from the serrated mandibles surrounding its circular mouth.   
  
In a swirl it shifted forms, taking on the appearance of a thirty year old Stanford.  Stan's jaw stiffened, his fists tightening, the blaster digging into his right hand.  The creature stared at him through his brother's brown eyes and through the lenses of his horn rimmed glasses.  It stepped forward, its khaki coat flapping with its strides.      
  
Ford's voice spat forth from the imposter as it pointed at Stan, "You ruined my life and you couldn't even find it in you to apologize!  Why did you even want me around when you just made fun of me and the things I liked all the time?"    
  
Stan's fighting stance slackened.  The blaster slipped from his hand.     
  
Fiddleford coughed, trying to catch his breath.  "Don't listen to him, Stan!  That's not really Ford!"    
  
The false Ford edged forward, spitting every poisonous sentiment it could muster, "Do you know what it was like after you left?  I could feel dad's disappointment in me every day.  And mom...  Mom was never the same again.  She tried but I know she hated me after that night.  You were the light of her life, not me!  And what exactly were you doing for all of those years that you never called?  What did you get into that made mom cry when she found out you were in jail in another country?"    
  
"She cried...?"  Stan's mind spun.  He knew the creature advancing on him and assaulting him with emotional slights was not really his brother but how did it know these things?  What had it overheard from Ford?  How much of it was true and how much of it was twisted lies the creature was making up from what it did know?    
  
Fiddleford edged forward, reaching for Ford's blaster.  He prodded it, beat it with his fist, and slammed it against the ground in futile attempts to jostle some life back into it.  Nothing.  Whatever Ford was using to power it seemed to have died.  
  
Stan felt the striations of the gritty stone wall pressed against his back as he took another step away from the image of his brother.    
  
"She always loved you best, you know.  It never mattered what I did, it was always 'what about my little Stanley?'  Even when she heard I might be able to go to West Coast Tech she never bothered to say congratulations or good job.  She was too concerned about you to even spare me a glance.  I was never good enough."  
  
"Stan!"  Fiddleford shouted, a crazed grin spreading beneath his beard, exposing his crooked teeth.  "You still got that grapplin' hook?"    
  
Stan blinked as the question derailed his thoughts and returned him to reality.  "Yeah.  Yeah I do."  
  
"Then I gots' a plan!"  Fiddleford reached into his pocket.  When his hand withdrew, the dim light flashed across a familiar gray disc, the same type of explosive Ford had used earlier.    
  
In an instant Stan understood.  He nodded to Fiddleford, his resolve returning.  His muscles stiffened as he faced the Ford-shaped creature and said, "You're not Ford.  I know you're not.  And you know what?  You don't know enough about me to get to me like you did to him.  If you did, there are far worse things you would have turned into!"  He dug in his pocket and pulled his hand out, his brass knuckles clutched between his fingers.  He pushed himself from the wall, stepping into a left hook as the creature shifted back to its true form.  His fist connected with 210's cheek, his bones cracking as the brass knuckles dug into its flesh.    
  
Stan maneuvered around its flailing arm as it stumbled backwards, ducking and nearly stumbling over his own feet, his hand bracing against the ground to re-balance himself.  He reached for the disc in Fiddleford's hand as he ran past him.  With a flip of his coat he turned and traded his brass knuckles for Mabel's grappling hook.  He aimed for the stalactites above Fiddleford's trap and fired.  His body lifted from the ground as he reeled in the line, the steamy air bristling through the few hairs not plastered to his coat by slowly melting sap.  He positioned the disc in the amber goo leaking out of the crack in the cavern's ceiling and nodded to the long-bearded man.  Fiddleford returned his nod before turning to the shape shifter.    
  
It rubbed its cheek, taken aback by the force of Stan's punch with the added sting of metal wrapped around his fingers.  It spotted Fiddleford and let out a spine tingling shriek, rearing it's pale body at him.  He scampered toward the trap with 210 practically grabbing his feet.  Stan pulled the explosive's tab and repelled from the stalactites, letting the grappling hook's cord unravel.  The light's increasingly swift flashes accompanied mechanical beeps, setting the pace for his next moves.  He tugged the hook away from the stalactites and reeled in the line like a retractable vacuum cord.  As the beeps came closer together, he rammed his shoulder into the shape shifter, preventing it's mandibles from sinking into Fiddleford's leg.  He wrapped his arm around the skinny man's waist and carried him away, tucked under his arm like a stack of books.  The beeps blended into the final earsplitting tone followed by an earthshaking blast.    
  
Stan and Fiddleford watched from behind a set of three lumpy and calcified stalagmites as the crevasse burst open in a fiery blast.  The shape shifter morphed to its centipede form and rolled in on itself, taking cover from the stones spewed from the blast source.   Debris pelted against the cavern walls and shattered against the stalagmites shielding Stan and Fiddleford from the shock wave.  A massive gob of amber sap blobbed down from the hole coating the shape shifter before it could uncurl itself.    
  
Fiddleford glanced to the wall where the glowing mushrooms awaited his signal, relieved to see the blast's effects didn't affect their leathery caps.  He scrambled forward flailing his arms to signal his fungal friends.  The mushrooms sprang forth from the wall and scampered around the goo-coated shape shifter.  They wedged themselves beneath the fence-like panels Stan had nailed together earlier.  The moss pulled apart in curled strings and fluffy fibers as they tilted the sides up.  A stacked column of Fiddleford's fungal friends lifted the crate's lid and positioned it on top, drowning out 210's already muffled screeches.    
  
Fiddleford tugged at the ropes laced around the wooden panels and through the eyelets he'd crafted, drawing the sides together.  Beginning at the top, Stan's hands twirled in a blur as he tied knots in each of the four ropes.  The sap oozed out of the seams as the crate's sides tightened together.  Fiddleford pulled the remaining two ropes and stepped aside to let Stan tighten and knot them.    
  
"Heh," Stan laughed and stepped back, wincing as the shape shifter's muffled shrieks sounded from within.  "It worked."  
  
"Yeah," Fiddleford said breathlessly, doubled over in exhaustion.  He hacked his way through an anxious rush and uprighted himself.  "We did it."  
  
A weak knocking sounded from inside the crate.  The ropes creaked and strained as the creature struggled from within.    
  
"C'mon, guys," Fiddleford said, signaling to the mushrooms, "Let's get this thing to the freezer!"  
  
  
****  
  
Dipper curled his legs up against himself, leaning sideways against the back of the waiting room chair.  He wedged his hands between his cheek and the chair's worn black upholstery like a makeshift pillow, the course weave imprinting into his skin.  His body shook from an exhaustion which seemed to drain every spark of warmth from him despite the dry heat blasting into the room from an overhead vent.  He curled up tighter, wishing he had more than his coat for a blanket.  Even more, he wished someone would turn off or at least mute the TV's murmur.  It echoed through his head as if the weatherman was shouting his forecast for light snow.  Mostly, he wished he knew how his great uncles were doing.  How could he possibly rest while one was facing a monster in a labyrinth of mines and caves and the other was somewhere in the emergency room being stitched up after using himself as a human shield in an explosion?  He closed his eyes trying to think  _you're no good to anyone if you don't rest._ But thinking and doing were two different things.  After nearly an hour of not sleeping because he should be sleeping, he'd almost managed to nod off.  Just as his head lulled against his hands, his phone vibrated in his pocket.  "Gah!" His body jerked upright.    
  
"Huh what, where?!"  Mabel bolted up in the chair beside him, smacking her lips and wondering how much time had passed since she dozed off.  Her knitting project slipped off her lap and into an ecru pile on the floor.  "What's going on?"  She rubbed her eyes, grimacing at the stale taste in her mouth.      
  
Dipper's hand fumbled around in his pocket until he retrieved his phone.  "It's Grunkle Stan!  He says they caught the shape shifter!"  
  
"Are they alright?  Are they hurt?  Do they need our help?"  Mabel rambled, leaning over her chair's arm, her face between Dipper and his phone.  She steadied it in his hands with one of hers and read aloud, "We trapped the shape shifter.  We're still in the cave.  Still safe.  How's Ford?  Have you heard anything yet?"  Mabel settled back in her chair.  "We don't really know much yet to answer that."  She shuffled her feet, thinking of the commotion they'd heard earlier from behind the emergency room's doors.  When she'd asked about it the only answer she received was that Ford was "a real fighter" and that the doctors said "there were some complications but he might just pull through," whatever that meant.  She fully suspected the staff was treating her like a little kid who couldn't handle the details.  Part of her wanted to be angry but another part had to admit she didn't know what the term "debridement" meant without looking it up.  The part of her that gagged at the search result images was almost glad for the staff's discretion.  
  
"I guess I'll just tell him what they told us," Dipper said with a worried sigh.  His thumbs typed the message, "We haven't heard much yet.  They said 'he might just pull through.' but we're not sure what that really means."    
  
After a few moments the phone vibrated in his hands.  He nearly dropped it trying to answer the incoming call.    
  
"Hello," he spoke softly, swinging himself out of his chair and heading for the door.  
  
"Hey, sorry kiddo but I just can't get used to this texting thing."  
  
"That's alright, this is probably better anyway," Dipper's voice cut off as the doors slid shut behind him.  Mabel watched him pace outside, the sky beginning to lighten behind him.  She looked up to the TV where Shandra Jimenez appeared bored by a story about a new coffee pie offered by Greasy's Diner.  In the corner below, Soos and Melody leaned against each other with Soos's coat draped over them.  Each snored lightly, their shoulders rising and falling with sleepy breaths.    
  
At the whooshing sound of a door sliding open, Mabel turned her head, looking for the source.  A woman in blue scrubs emerged from the hall behind the security desk and circled around it into the waiting room.  "Spruce family?" She inquired.  It took Mabel a few blinks to realize she was supposed to answer.    
  
"Oh yes!  Sorry, I'm a little tired."  It wasn't a total lie.  Her yawn was quite honest.   
  
"Dr. Spruce has been admitted to room 325.  You can come back and visit him if you'd like but he hasn't regained consciousness yet."    
  
"Okay, let me go get my brother."  She leaned over and crammed her knitting project into her bag, slung it over her shoulder and dashed for the doors.    
  
"Dipper!  Dipper!  We can go visit him now!"  The cold smacked her in the face as she darted through the doors and into the snow flurries of the dim predawn.  
  
"Oh!  Grunkle Stan, I have to go, they said we can visit him now.  Yeah I'll let you know.  Alright see you soon.  Bye."  Dipper pocketed his phone and tugged on Mabel's arm before she had a chance to run back inside.  "Wait I have to talk to you for a minute," he practically whispered.  "Grunkle Stan and Mc Gucket still have to finish up with the shape shifter and then they're going back home for a bit to get cleaned up and look into getting a quickie fake ID for Grunkle Ford.  Stan says he knows a guy who owes him a favor and he should have it in a few hours.  He said they'd be here as soon as he has it."  
  
"Oh alright.  They're not hurt or anything, right?"  Mabel asked, wiping her chilled and dripping nose on her sweater sleeve.    
  
"They said they're fine but just tired."  He answered, walking back to the sheltered entrance beside his sister.   
  
Back in the warmth of the coffee scented waiting room, Mabel rocked Soos's shoulder to wake him.  
  
"Huh pizza cake?  Yes please," he muttered, his eyes open half-mast.  He blinked, his vision focusing on Mabel and said, "Oh hi there little lady dude.  What's goin' on?"  He rubbed his eye, keeping his movement to a minimum to avoid disturbing Melody without any luck.  She stirred with a light mumble, her eyes fluttering open.    
  
"We're going back to visit Grunkle Ford."  Mabel explained.  "Grunkle Stan is safe and he's going to come here as soon as he can.  You and Melody should go home and rest.  We'll be alright by ourselves now."                 
  
"That actually sounds pretty good.  Are you sure you don't mind?"  Melody said with a stretch and a yawn.  Her ponytail had long ago unraveled and her eye shadow dripped below her eyes.    
  
"Yeah you've already done so much to help us."  Dipper said with a weak smile.    
  
"Alright dudes but you call us if you need us," Soos offered.  "And let us know how he's doing, alright."  
  
Dipper nodded with a mumbled sound of agreement.      
  
"We'll bring you some fresh clothes later if you want," Melody offered, "and just let us know if there's anything else we can bring or do to help."  
  
"Thanks," Mabel said with a wave.    
  
The pairs parted ways with Soos and Melody disappearing through the sliding exterior doors, their backs slouched and feet dragging, and Dipper and Mabel circling the security desk, following the blue-clad woman down the hall in a brisk trot.    
  
"So, how is he?"  Dipper asked as they neared the brown paneled elevator.    
  
"His condition is stable."  She pressed a button whose paint had long ago worn off and the elevator whirred behind the doors.  "He's an incredibly lucky man, though.  We have no idea what would necessitate the installation of a metal plate into his head but it saved his life today.  Additionally, I can't imagine why he was wearing an empty holster but the strap prevented a shard of glass from potentially causing a lethal wound to his lung."  
  
"He's kind of been through some things," Dipper vaguely explained, ruffling the hair on the back of his head.    
  
"That's an understatement," Mabel spoke under her breath.    
  
The scraped and scuffed doors rumbled open.  Dipper and Mabel followed the woman into the elevator and turned to watch the doors slide closed.  It rambled upward, lifting them to the third floor where the doors slipped open with a creak.    
  
"He's right in here," she said, leading them past the wood paneled nurses' station and through the oscillating florescence of the hall.  She gestured to an open door to her right.  
  
They stepped inside, blinking as their eyes adjusted to the dimness.  The first bed was empty but beyond the curtain, a figure laid on his side, half-covered by a dull white blanket.  As they crept forward, they could see he faced the window.  Stripes of light from the streetlights outside streamed through the slats of the vertical blinds casting bars of white over his covered legs.  The part in the back of his color speckled hospital gown revealed bandages covering his back.  A band of gauze was wrapped around his head, pressing a thick medical pad against the wound above his left ear.    
  
Dipper crept forward, his eyes narrowing as he noticed something odd.  Attached to the bed's raised side rail was a thick brown strap which led below the blanket near his great uncle's feet.  "Maaabel..." he spoke with trepidation as he noticed a second strap fastened to the rail near Ford's chest.    
  
Mabel squinted, trying to see what had her brother so concerned.  Her eyes opened wide and her mouth hung agape as she noticed the straps.  She ran past Dipper, dropping her knitting bag, and lifted the blanket from her great uncle's arms.  His hands were bound together and strapped to the bed's rail.  Dipper's heart pounded as he lifted the blanket from his great uncle's feet.  He gasped when he found his ankles bound in the same fashion.   
  
"What's going on?!" Dipper yelled, "Why is he restrained!?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear... What have you gotten yourself into now, Ford?
> 
> Also, Stan and Fidds might just be able to get along after all... Maybe... We'll see ;).


	13. Circumstantial Proof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Fiddleford trek through the labyrinth again, hoping their cobbled together creation holds up. Dipper and Mabel inadvertently show irrefutable proof of how much they care about Ford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Hallucinations, blood, restraints. 
> 
> And I have failed at making art again. Ah well. 
> 
> And I also lied. I said a while back I wouldn't use anything from the journals but I kinda did... So er possible spoilers. 
> 
> Special thanks to usually-confused.tumblr.com for looking over things for me, to looneymoony for the #freeDrSpruce2016 tag, and to minimysterytwins.tumblr.com and halcon24.tumblr.com for moral support!

Stan and Fiddleford stood back in awe, admiring their handiwork, a simple makeshift crate whose sides had fit perfectly into the grooves Fiddleford crafted in its top and bottom.  It had miraculously managed to contain a massive glob of sticky sap with the shape shifter suspended inside.  It wasn't the prettiest thing nor was it as high tech as Fiddleford's robotic creations, but they'd managed it with a breadcrumb assortment of supplies, very little time, and while their own minds and bodies were practically running on empty.  They'd pushed aside their hunger, thirst, and aching joints and muscles to stop the homicidal creature from bringing harm to the town and their families and it was worth it.  The raw, splintered wood and rope, being coated by  sap trickling sluggishly from the hole they'd blasted in the ceiling was one of the most satisfying things they'd ever seen.    
  
Their chests heaved as they bent in exhaustion and gasped for a fresh breath within the sulfur steam.  Sweat and sap dripped from their limbs, coated their beards, and stuck their shoes to the mossy floor.  Red flushed their faces, burning their cheeks.  Though they felt their exhaustion in every limb, though they were hungry and worried for Ford, though they knew there was more work ahead, they took a moment to celebrate their current success.        
  
"We did it," Fiddleford gasped, feeling his heart still hammering against his ribs, the double-time tempo beating through every artery.  His limbs tingled as the tension began easing out of them.  He looked to his new herd of mushroom friends and said, still rather breathlessly, "Come on, guys, let's get this thing to the freezer."    
  
His heart stopped and he stumbled back as a fresh wave of muffled shrieks and dull thumps rocked the crate from the inside out.  Its sides bulged against the groaning ropes, sap leaking out from the straining seams.    
  
"What's going on?!  What's it doing?"  Stan backed away, his hands lifted, bracing for the worst.  
  
The crate tipped and teetered and the ropes rubbed against their leads, fibers splitting and fraying, wood cracking and creaking.    
  
"Tryin'a shift into somethin' big enough to break the crate!"  Fiddleford answered, panic in his voice.  "I thought the sap would'a stopped it from-"  His words trailed off as the crate settled and the struggle from within ceased.  A relieved puff of air whooshed through his lips.    
  
"Now what?"  Stan asked, fingers reaching forward cautiously to check the tension on the ropes.  "Can...  can it breathe in there?"  
  
"It doesn't have to.  It's just as I hoped.  It's probably shifti-fied itself into a teapot or somethin' by now so it doesn't need air."    
  
"Oh.  It can do that too?  Yikes.  That's...  Downright terrifying."     
  
"Yeah.  Can you imagine?  It coulda' turned into anything if it got loose from here again...  It coulda' taken anyone's form.  It coulda' been a bird outside the window or even a chair in yer house," Fiddleford rambled.  
  
"Why the HELL were you and my brother keeping that thing down here?"    
  
"I'd like to say it was to stop it from bein' a danger to the town but in all honesty it wasn't so much about that as it was to study 210.  But I'd be lyin' if I didn't add that we finally did freeze it because it became too much of a threat."  
  
"Well, let's get it frozen again before it figures out some way to break out of there.  Hey, Jeff, Carson, Shmebu-whatever and uh...  the rest of you guys," Stan shouted, "It's safe now.  You mind helping us out with this thing?"  
  
"Well I was actually hoping you wouldn't notice if we just sort of...  stayed hidden until you guys left and headed home..." Jeff said, slinking out from behind a cluster of calcified stalagmites, Mabel's phone still clutched in his hands.  
  
"Hey, gimme that," Stan swiped the phone away from him, gripping one of the case's pig ears with the sticky tips of his forefinger and thumb.  "You think I didn't notice that you were gonna desert us and walk off with this once already today?  Er...  yesterday?  Last night?  I don't even know what day it is anymore..."  
  
"What?  It's a cool device.  Plus it reminds me of-"  
  
"I'm gonna stop you right there," Stan interrupted, dropping the phone into his coat pocket.  "That's just creepy.  You guys need to move on.  Mabel's not gonna be your queen or whatever."    
  
"Yeah..."  Jeff looked to the ground, his feet shuffling.  "Alright you know what, we're gonna help you this one last time but it's only so we can make sure that monster doesn't come after _us_ again at some point."  
  
"Great.  I'm gonna send a message to the kids and tell them we caught this thing and see if they've heard anything about Ford yet."  Stan rubbed his hands together until the sticky sap mostly peeled off, taking at least a layer or two of skin with it.  He squinted at the cracked screen of Ford's phone to type out a message and awaited an answer while Fiddleford helped the gnomes tip the crate onto its side.  He watched them drag it away from the thinning stream of goo still trickling over it from the hole in the cavern ceiling.  
  
The phone buzzed in his hands and everyone turned to him.  He could feel Fiddleford's nervous fidgeting without having to look up as he read aloud, "We haven't heard much yet.  They said 'he might just pull through' but we're not sure what that really means."  
  
"He might just pull through?"  Fiddleford questioned.    
  
"I'm gonna try to call them.  To be honest I'm not even sure how there's a signal in here but hey, there it is." Stan poked the screen then held it close to but not against his sap splattered ear.    
  
"Probably the alien gizmos we installed in here are amplifying the signal..."  Fiddleford mumbled, briefly considering the possibilities that presented when combined with modern Earth technology.    
  
Fiddleford half-listened to Stan's side of the phone conversation while watching the gnomes form their red hat-speckled giant once more.    
  
"We can handle carrying this," Jeff said, commanding the giant's hands to lift the gooey crate.  "Where's it gotta go?"  
  
"Down tha're," Fiddleford answered, pointing to the cavern he and Stan had traversed earlier.  "Just follow the yarn.  We'll light the way so y'all mushrooms don't have ta go ta the trouble a' makin' the trek with us again!"  
  
"Uh, no we won't," Stan said, ending his call.  Mabel's phone is dead and Ford's phone just gave me the low battery warning.  If we need to get a message to the kids, we're gonna need to save whatever's left.  But the good news is that the kids are going to see Ford right now."  
  
"So he's gonna be okay?"  Fiddleford asked, absently trying to wring his hands only to have them stick together, nearly tangling the end of his blood and sap stained beard between them.    
  
"I think so," Stan said with an uneasy smile, hesitant to believe it until he saw for himself.   
  
Fiddleford let out a relieved sigh.  "Alright then, let's finish this up so we can go see him too!  Can some of you guys light the way for us again?" he asked the mushrooms.    
  
Five toddled forward, their caps nodding.    
  
"Welp, let's do this then," Fiddleford said, bending to pick up his debris-flattened hat.  His hands stuck to the brim as he shook it, letting the air catch in the cap to fluff it back into it's crooked shape.  He'd just tugged it back onto his head when he noticed something else nearly blending into the shadows on the moss and dust coated floor.  Ford's blaster.  He bent with a groan and lifted the scuffed and dented firearm, turning it this way and that, examining every side.  
  
"What'cha looking for?" Stan asked.  
  
"You know," Fiddleford began, a smile playing across his lips, "I love the man but who doesn't put a power gauge on a blaster?"  He stood, legs settling into their usual bowed stance, and tucked the blaster into his coat pocket, shaking his hand to loosen it from his gluey grip.    
  
"Someone who doesn't want his enemies to know which cards he's holding," Stan answered with a sigh.    
  
Fiddleford paused, his smile sagging before he answered, "Oh."    
  
The gnome giant lumbered forward, following the glow of the five toddling mushrooms and ducking to fit through the center cavern.  Fiddleford bid farewell to the fungal friends remaining behind and followed after, keeping his eyes on the crate tucked under the giant's arm.     
  
"You know what I wanna know?  And this one's for both you and my brother," Stan said, matching his pace to Fiddleford's, "Who carries around explosives wherever they go like they're a pack of breath mints?  I mean I get wanting to be armed but explosives?  Seriously?"  
  
"I guess someone who wants ta have an ace or two up their sleeves," Fiddleford answered with a shrug.    
  
"Those aren't aces those are wild cards."  
  
"Guess you could say we're quite a -"  
  
"If you say 'pair' I'm going to punch you-"  Stan could barely finish his sentence.  He sputtered and lost himself to a fit of exhausted laughter, dragging Fiddleford into it with him.   He heaved in a breath, his cheeks sore and his glasses fogged up.  The gnome giant glared back and shrugged at the two old men as their laughter settled into exasperated chuckles and finally faded.  With splitting sides and a cramped stomach added onto his already lengthy list of aching body parts, Stan wasn't sure how he managed to formulate a coherent thought and put it into words.    
  
"You know...  I think I might just be able to do this," he chuckled.    
  
"Do what?"  Fiddleford asked, lifting his glasses to wipe his eyes with his shirt sleeve.    
  
"Not throttle you for Ford's sake," Stan said with a sly grin.    
  
"Oh that.  Yeah.  Guess I can stop bein' such a fox inn'a hen house to you too.  Yer not such a bad guy.  And I do gotta give ya credit for bringin' Ford back... even if ya didn't wanna rescue him during the end times and called my plans cockamamie balderdash-"    
  
Fiddleford flinched when Stan interrupted him.  
  
"Why you-"  Stan reached out to grab his hat but Fiddleford sidestepped the swipe.  "I didn't want to rescue him  _because_  I spent all that time worrying over him and trying to bring him back and what thanks did I get?!"      
  
"But now ya' know why he couldn't thank ya at the time, right?" Fiddleford sputtered, nearly stumbling over a rocky step before regaining his footing.    
  
Stan grunted, withdrawing his hand.  "Yeah but I didn't know at the time!"  His mind suddenly connected recent information to what he'd already learned about Bill and the rift.   _That monster tortured you?_   He stopped as the thought slammed into him like a punch to his gut.  He leaned against the wall, clutching his stomach and feeling physically ill, "He was being tortured while I...  But I didn't know!  I didn't know any of that.  I didn't know using the portal would cause a rift.  I didn't know it would invite a damn demon into our world!  I just wanted to bring my brother back.  But I made things worse like I always do!"  His fist pounded against the tunnel wall, his skin rubbing raw against the stone.  
  
"Whoa now I never said any a' that.  Don't beat yerself up over it.  Y'all just had a big, huge misunderstandin' but now ya got a chance ta, well...  understand better."  Fiddleford reached out for Stan's shaking shoulder but he pulled himself away.    
  
"And what makes you say that?" He asked in a throaty whisper.    
  
"When Ford an' I talked after the end times were over, he was grateful to ya.  He saw by then that ya were tryin'a help him.  He kept on gushin' about you bein' a hero."  Fiddleford squinted in the increasing darkness as the gnomes and glowing mushrooms continued ahead of them.  "I never mentioned anything to him to the contrary.  Figured it wasn't my place."    
  
"I told him about it," Stan muttered.  "I told him how angry I was and that I wasn't exactly happy about helping him again.  He said he understood but he never talked about his side of things."  
  
Fiddleford reached out again, this time managing to guide him away from the wall and back into a steady stride.  With a smile and a look akin to respect in his eyes, he said, "That was mighty good of ya' ta come clean 'bout that.  If he can forgive ya', guess I can too."    
  
"Uh, thanks?"  Stan shrugged.  He fell silent for a few moments before asking, "Hey, Did you know he was working with Bill when you two worked together?"  
  
"At the time, I knew he was getting unnatural ideas from somewhere but I didn't know where.  Ta be honest, I was so excited by the idea of changin' the world that I guess I let myself be just as blind to it as he was for a while.  But eventually, I could see him driftin; away.  I tried ta confront him 'bout it a few times but he'd always brush it off.  I was torn in so many ways at the time.  I was a married man an' I did love my wife but just...  not how she needed me to.  An' as much as I tried ta' shake it, I couldn't stop havin' feelin's I shouldn't've been havin' for him.  I'd've been happy if we just worked together like we were forever.  Nothing more...  just...  alright maybe a little more but at the same time I wasn't exactly attracted to him either.  But I didn't think it mattered.  I didn't think he'd ever return those feelings.  At the time, if'n ya' tried ta mention relationships to him, he'd either laugh it off or git real defensive 'bout how he didn't need 'em."  
  
"Because he thought..."  Stan remembered the shape shifter's words,  _"No one will ever love you."_  
  
"Yeah."  Fiddleford answered, understanding the implicit meaning in Stan's unfinished sentence.  "When things got out of hand an' he still wouldn't listen ta' me...  I snapped an' had ta leave."    
  
"Bill really had that much of a hold on him?"  
  
"Yeah.  I shoulda' known something more was wrong..." Fiddleford shivered as the tunnel wound further away from the steamy, sticky cavern, "I'd show up for work in the mornin's and he'd be covered in cuts and bruises with no memory of how he got 'em and he'd say it must'a just happened while he was working overnight.  It all makes sense now.  That monster isolated him from everyone.  It fed poison into his mind ta keep him feelin' like he was alone, like he was the only one he could trust.  And he downright abused him...  I was a fool ta' leave him like that..."  He cradled his head in his hands, smearing goo over his forehead and glasses.  
  
"Hey, you did what you had to.  Sometimes there's only so much you can do to try to help someone else before you break yourself."  
  
"But _you_ stuck with it.  Even when ya were alone an' tired an' probably frustrated an' ready ta give up...  Ya still stuck with it an' ya brought him back."   
  
"He's family.  And...  And I guess it was my way of tryin' ta say I was sorry for everything that happened." with a sigh he admitted, "I guess...  you're right.  He's apologized to me and thanked me for everything and, accident or not, he deserves an actual apology from me too."    
  
"An' you do too.  I'm sorry for bein' a pain.  I never knew gettin' him back was what'cha were up to all those years.  All I knew was somethin' about you an' the shack just didn't sit right with me.  Everythin' just felt so cattywampus."  
  
"Yeah I guess I get why you were always hangin' around and buggin' me.  I was just a constant reminder that he wasn't there anymore."  
  
"But it was _you_ who brought him back.  I was useless, didn't remember who he was, where he went, or even that he was gone.  Just knew something was missing and it left a gap the size 'a the Darkmoon Gorge in my life.  So uh...  Thanks."  
  
Stan smiled, uncertain of what to say in response.   _You're welcome?  Thanks for saying thanks?  Wait..._   "Uh, what on Earth is the Darkmoon Gorge?"  
  
"Oh it's an abyss that leads straight to the underworld in Dungeons, Dungeons-"  
  
Stan smacked his forehead, interrupting Fiddleford.  "Oh not that dumb nerd game again.  You know what?" he said, wagging his forefinger at Fiddleford, "Maybe you and my brother are actually meant for each other.  You're both the same brand of weird, frazzled, sci-fi nerd."    
  
"I'll take that as a compliment," Fiddleford said with a laugh which rattled off into a solemn sigh.  "But I guess that depends on him.  I still don't know how he feels about me."  
  
"Are you kidding?" Stan said with an incredulous lift of his eyebrow, "I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looked at you back when you were banjo-beating the snot outta that monster.  Creeped me out a little to tell ya' the truth.  But I guess there's something I don't get.  He blames himself for what happened to you.  He says it's his fault that you..."  
  
"Erasamatized my mind? Ended up livin' in the dump?"  
  
"Yeah. That. If that's the case then how can you be so willing to give him a second chance like this?  How can you so easily still," the word tasted bitter on Stan's tongue, emerging as almost a gagging noise, "love him if he hurt you so much?"

"Eh-heh.  Actually...  We uh-  Well, truth is we had a real problem with listenin' ta  _each other_ back in the day.  I asked him not ta' hang around that Gremlobin too long but he insisted it was safe..."  
  
"Heh, yeah that sounds like him.  Always too interested in dangerous things to see that they're dangerous things," Stan said with a fond laugh.   
  
"Yeah well, he would'a been right about that iff'n it weren't fer the alien alarm that went off in ma' bag.  I saw ma' worst nightmares in that critter's eyes that day.  But he saved me.  He apologized an' tried ta help me through it and ta' be honest, if i'd 'a kept up with what he was teachin' me I reckon it might'a worked but I just wanted ta' forget it all as fast as possible.  That's when I built ma' memory gun.  When I showed it to him he was appalled an' told me not ta' use it - that I should destroy it.  And well...  He was the first person I used it on," shame tinted Fiddleford's voice as he muttered the last sentence.    
  
Stan stopped, frozen for a moment before jogging to catch back up to Fiddleford.  "You...  You erased Ford's mind?"  
  
"Oh Heavens no.  Just that one memory.  But still.  I didn't listen to him.  He warned me.  He tried ta' tell me it would destroy my life.  Just like I warned him about the portal.  But by that point I wouldn't 'a blamed him fer not listenin'.  I think he knew what I did even back then, or at least suspected.  I think I broke his trust that day.  What's worse is I thought 'bout usin' the memory gun on him again.  I was gonna erase that portal plan right outta him.  But I couldn't do it.  I kept seein' the betrayed look on his face when I pulled the trigger the first time an' it broke my heart.  I tried erasin' the memory from my own mind but every time I saw him, it came back...  Until I finally erased all of him and the project."  
  
"Wow..." Stan's answer puffed out, his eyes wide and jaw hanging slack.    
  
"Yeah."    
  
"You were both some kinda' messed up."  
  
"Yeah.  We- we're gonna have some things to work through," Fiddleford admitted, his feet shuffling against the rocky ground.    
  
The two continued in silence, increasing their pace to catch up to the gnomes and the warm glow of the mushrooms.  The sticky sap dribbles had crystallized in their beards and around the shape shifter's crate in the increasingly frigid air.  The gnome giant huffed in near exhaustion.  Stan watched his breath hang in the air, trying not to think too much as they neared their destination, trying not to let his self-bludgeoning notions spiral out of control, trying to keep his eyes open and his feet dragging forward over a string of alternating red and orange yarn.  Fiddleford yawned, feeling the weight of his limbs grow heavier with every step.  His feet and legs ached and he didn't think he could be any happier to see the glow of the cavern ahead.        
  
The gnome giant and five luminescent mushrooms led the way into the vast cavern where ancient reptiles were frozen in time.  The amber sap coating the shape shifter's crate had already begun to harden into a tough, translucent shell.  The tiny mushrooms shivered against the chill as it drifted down through the hole in the cavern ceiling in flurries.   

"Well bless the sweet cosmos, it's snowing," Fiddleford said with a wide smile as he looked over the white dusted cavern floor.    
  
Stan looked up, the tension in his shoulders releasing as he watched white specks sparkle in the pink glow of dawn.    
  
Fiddleford directed the gnomes to set the crate down in the growing drift of snow swirling into a semicircular outcropping of brown striated rock.  He bent to the five shivering mushrooms and patted their caps in appreciation.  "Thank 'ya kindly for yer help.  Y'all should head back home now.  Ya' been in this cold fer too long tryin'a help us."  
  
They gave slow, melancholy nods.  
  
"Aw don't worry, I gotta bring Ford back down here to visit you.  So I promise ta' come back again."    
  
They turned as if looking directly at Stan.  
  
"What?!" he grunted, crossing his arms.    
  
"I think they want you to come back and visit sometime too."  
  
He raised an eyebrow.  With a dismissive wave he gave in to their hopeful postures.  "Alright fine, I'll come back with them."  
  
Their caps perked up and they turned and toddled back toward their home cavern, following the trail of red and orange yarn.    
  
"So what about this thing?" Stan asked, knocking his knuckles against the icy sap coating 210's crate.    
  
"It'll freeze straight through now.  We'll still have ta' come up with a perma-na-ment solution but we'll have some time."  
    
  
****  
  
Every part of Ford's body felt heavy, as if the air itself held him down.  He was sure he'd just awoken yet he was as tired as if he hadn't slept in days, as tired as he was when he couldn't _let_ himself sleep for days.  The oppressive drowsiness lapped at his consciousness, threatening to drag him back under.  He resisted its pull trying to focus on his surroundings.   _Where am I?_   He wondered but could not muster the strength to so much as open his eyes.  He focused on his other senses, struggling to tear himself from sleep's warm, comforting embrace.  He could feel the springs and creases of a mattress beneath him and the stiff cotton of a pillowcase against his cheek.  A pungent, antiseptic odor filled his nostrils.  He tried to move, tried to lift any part of his body but even his fingers refused to respond.   _Wait._   He felt pressure wrapped around his wrists.  As the numbness locking his limbs in place melted, he noticed the same sensation around his ankles.    
_  
No!  It was a dream...  I thought it was just a dream!_  
  
He had been surrounded, faces looking down at him, their eyes glowing yellow.  Voices echoed in the distance but he could not interpret their words.  He was exhausted and everything hurt and he wanted nothing more than to give in to sleep.   
  
"No!  Can't sleep!  Don't sleep!"  He wasn't sure if he had said it aloud or not.  If he had it was strained and grainy, brimming with frantic fear.  
  
His arms thrashed and his legs kicked, trapped under layers of fabric.  He bucked against it, against the suffocating pressure of multiple limbs holding him down.  Pain tore at his back as he struggled to stand, struggled past hands and arms trying to drag him back down.  His head spun when he stood.  His legs wobbled, numbness edging in on him.  
  
Those eyes were everywhere, brilliantly yellow and slashed down their centers by a malevolent abyss, void of any light, peering out of the walls, staring from the ceiling, bubbling out of the darkness bleeding into the corners of his vision.    
  
He wanted to close his eyes, to slam them shut and block it all out but it would be too easy to slip into sleep.  He looked to the floor, desperate to escape their gaze.  It blurred and crawled, brown flecks swaying over glossy white.  He took a step, yanking his arm loose from the hands grasping at it.  Red splattered across the floor.  His legs wobbled and he crashed to his knees, a dizzy grogginess overwhelming him, dragging him down in the undertow.    
   
"No.  Please no.  Stay out of my head!"     
  
He blinked, trying to clear his vision, trying to look around him.   _Stan!  Dipper!  Mabel!  Fiddleford!_  Panic slammed into his chest as he realized he couldn't find them.    
  
"Where are they?  What have you done to them?!"  
  
He looked down to his shaking hands.  Dried blood, sickly brown-tinted red, stained his palms and fingertips.  Fresh crimson dribbled down his left arm, trailing over his palm, and dripping between his fingers.      
  
The nasally, twisted voice he'd heard in his mind more times than he could stand cackled and crooned, "I think you should ask yourself what you've done to them."    
  
The fuzzy darkness framing his vision swirled into a whirlpool of numb oblivion and everything blinked out, as if the world had come to an end.    
  
_It was just a dream...  Right?  Not real.  Just a nightmare...  Right?  But I didn't wake up...  I always wake up!  Is this him again?  Is he here?_  His thoughts raced but a screaming voice from somewhere outside interrupted.  The yell seemed distant to him, as if it came from across a field or perhaps through a tunnel.  The voice was familiar yet the tone didn't seem to fit.            
  
"What's going on?!  Why is he restrained?!"  The voice asked, edged in panic and concern but overwhelmingly outraged.    
  
The answer came meekly at first and escalated into a defensive shout, "It was for his own safety.  He woke up earlier and tried to fight off the surgeons and nurses.  He ripped the stitches out of two of his wounds and damaged his IV during a blood transfusion.  We had trouble sedating him.  He kept saying things like 'don't sleep,' 'stay out of my head,' and 'what have you done to them?'  We had to restrain him to keep him from hurting himself."       
  
"Mabel!"  The familiar voice sounded closer as he focused on it.  He felt a tug at his wrists before it finished its command.  "Get him out of those!"    
  
_Dipper?_   He'd never heard his great nephew so angry before.  The sound seemed surreal in his dreary haze yet the irate tone echoed in his ears.  "Do you have any idea what it would do to him if he woke up like this?!"     
  
_They're safe_.   _Dipper and Mabel are safe._  He felt something tug at the straps around his ankles, matching the sensation at his wrists.  He tried to force his eyes open again but they refused to obey his mental command.  
  
He heard a female voice reply shakily, "I'm sorry but he did assault members of our staff and we had to stop him from trying to get up again."          
  
"Well, we're here now.  We won't let that happen.  Just-  We gotta get these things off of him.  Didn't you see the scars on his wrists?  If he wakes up like this... I don't want him having any more flashbacks!"  Dipper yelled, his voice catching as the last words blurted out.     
  
"Flashbacks?  He's having flashbacks?" the female asked, "If he's been through something traumatic, please tell us.  There is therapy available."   
  
_Therapy?  No...  I-I'm fine._   Ford thought.  The memory of Dipper and Mabel looking up to him, eyes strained with concern, struck him, their words echoing in his head.   _"You were having flashbacks."  "We were really scared."  Are they that worried?  About me?  Why?_       
  
"Did you live here in the summer of 2012?"  He heard Dipper ask.    
  
"Yes I...  Oh.  The unpleasantness..."  The woman answered.    
  
_It was all my fault.  What have I done?  What have I done to them?_  
  
Ford felt the tugging at his ankles and wrists cease.  Dipper's voice softened as he spoke, "Yes.  That.  You remember how Stanley Pines was the one who sacrificed himself to save us?"    
  
"Yes!  Don't tell me this is him!  It looks a lot like him."  The female voice said.    
  
"No.  This is his brother, Stanford," Mabel answered.  "We gave you a fake name because legally...  well it's a mess."      
  
"Then he's one who started that horror-fest?  We heard it was all his fault!" The woman shouted.  Ford would have flinched if he had the physical capacity for it.  "He was the one that summoned that monster in the first place!"  
  
_It was.  It was all my fault.  All of you suffered because of me..._  
  
"He did but you know what?"  Dipper began softly but his last sentence burst forth in a protective shout, "What happened that summer wasn't his fault!"  
  
"How can you say that-!"  The woman's words sounded as Ford thought them.    
  
"Because we've both been tricked by Bill too,"  Mabel answered, a defensive edge to her voice.  "We know how he manipulated people..."    
  
"Believe me," Dipper added, "If he hadn't gotten to Grunkle Ford he would have found someone else.  Maybe someone who wouldn't have spent thirty years of his life trying to find a way to stop him!"  
  
"Grunkle Ford's a hero too."  Mabel added.    
  
"Yeah!"  Dipper blurted, "And we just found out that on top of all that, he was tortured for information and never gave in!  He could have sold out the world for his own gain but he didn't," Dipper's tone shifted from anger to admiration, "He never gave up.  Even if he failed he never gave up."    
  
_But...  I...  It's my fault...  I'm not a..._  Ford's thoughts tangled upon themselves.    
  
"And he made a sacrifice that day too,"  Mabel said, her tone somber.  "He was the one who had to pull the trigger."  Ford could hear the tears rising in her voice as she continued, " It broke his heart!  We could see it!" _  
  
_ He felt as if he couldn't breathe as she spoke.   _She doesn't hate me for that?  But she should!  She has every right to!  They both do..._  
  
"He had to sacrifice his own brother!" Dipper continued, "But he did it for the sake of this town, for the world, and...  for us.  He _is_ a hero too.  And I don't care if you think he is or not because...  he's one to us." _  
  
They think I'm...  But I'm not..._  His thoughts trailed off as the voice female replied, "I never knew that.  I don't think anyone did."  After a long pause she added, "Well...  I hope your... Dr. Spruce makes a full recovery.  Don't worry too much about his identification information.  Just get it to us when you can.  And please...  consider talking to him about getting some proper therapy so he doesn't hurt himself or anyone else..."  The voice drifted off on the last sentence.      
  
In the silence, sleep edged in on him once more until he felt the tugging sensation return to the straps binding his ankles together.    
  
Mabel's fingers fumbled with the buckles on the restraints tethering his hands to the bed's side, trying to unfasten them with as little jarring motion as possible.  Ford wanted nothing more than to speak to them, to tell them that they were more heroic, to tell them how proud he was of them, and to tell them how much he-    
  
His fingers moved.    
  
Mabel gasped.    
  
"He's waking up!  Grunkle Ford, everything's alright."  Mabel's hands grasped his right hand.  His fingers curled around hers.  "I'm going to get you out of these things!  We're here!  We're safe!  You're safe!"    
  
"You're in a hospital, you were hurt really bad,"  Dipper explained, unfastening the buckles at his ankles and tossing the restraints aside.    
  
_Yes...  I remember now..._  He thought.  He'd been injured but not by Bill.  They'd taken him to the hospital.  Mabel had offered him warmth and comfort the likes of which he hadn't felt in decades.   _People love you.  We love you.  I love you._  Her words echoed in his mind, grounding him in reality, fueling his willpower.  He'd wanted nothing more than to return her sentiment in that moment, to tell both twins how much they meant to him.  For the first time in too many years, he believed those words.    
  
His eyes opened into narrow slits, his eyelids drooping, barely yielding to his will.  "Dipper?"  His voice slurred, almost unintelligible.    
  
"Yes!  Yes I'm here."  
  
"Mabel?"  
  
"Yes, right here."  She said, squeezing his hand in both of hers.    
  
His consciousness slipped and he could feel the drowsiness defeating him.  His words blended together but he needed to speak.  He needed to tell them now before anything else got in the way.  "Love you too."  Sleep washed over him again, barely allowing him the last garbled word.    
  
  
****      
  
  
Mabel leaned over the rail of Ford's bed, her hands still holding his even though his grip had slackened as he fell asleep again.  She gently released his rough and calloused hand and carefully unbuckled the straps around his wrists.  She threw them aside, the buckles clattering against the floor.    
  
As Dipper leaned on the rail beside her, she asked in a breathy voice, "Did he just say...?"  
  
"Yeah.  I think so."    
  
"I mean, I knew he did but...  it's nice to hear it, isn't it?"  she said, grinning to him.  "I guess he really needed to hear it too."    
  
"Yeah."  Dipper agreed in a breathy voice.    
  
Mabel glanced down at her great uncle's wrists, trying to look past the IV taped to his arm and the bandages wrapped around his left hand.  She reached down, her fingers brushing against his scars.  "Thirty years..." she said, "He was hunted for thirty years."  
  
"Yeah.  I can't even imagine-"  
  
"Dipper, that's twice our lifetimes!"    
  
He couldn't manage an answer, couldn't think past trying to fathom more than twice his lifetime spent on the run, without a home or family or-  
  
"Do...  do you think he ever made any friends?"  She asked, her heart aching at the idea of being without people like Candy and Grenda for so long.    
  
"I don't know.  It must have been tough...  I mean, to even think of making friends when you're on the run all the time," Dipper thought aloud.    
  
"It must have been so lonely."  
  
"When we were spending all that time together,"  Dipper said, "playing Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons, he mentioned that it had been a long time since he had a friend."  
  
"And- and I was jealous."  Mabel sniffled, the thought tearing at her heart.  "Because you were spending time with him.  He needed you more than I did.  I-I'm sorry Dipper."  
  
"What for?"  
  
"You and him.  You probably would have been good for each other.  You said he didn't make fun of you like I did and and you have so much in common... but I wanted you all to myself."  
  
"You mean the apprenticeship?  Mabel, I couldn't have taken it.  It wasn't just you.  There was school and mom and dad...  I had to come home."  He reached out and wrapped his arm over his sister's shoulders pulling her into a half hug, "But when I really thought about it, I didn't want us to be apart yet."     
  
She leaned her head against his shoulder and watched the rise and fall of their great uncle's chest as he slept.  "I can't believe he used his own body to save McGucket like that."  
  
"He did it for me once too," Dipper said, lowering his arm from her shoulders.    
  
"What?  When?"  
  
He reached forward and gently lowered the neck of Ford's hospital gown over his shoulder revealing a faint, blistered scar.  "It did scar.  He told me not to worry about it at the time."    
  
"How did that happen?"  Mabel glanced between her brother and the discolored patch splashed across her great uncle's shoulder.    
  
"When we went into the alien spacecraft.  Remember I told you about the security droids and how I saved him from being taken to their prison?"  Well he saved me too that day.  He wrapped himself right around me to protect me and when he shot one of them down, it shot him.  I told him to go to a doctor but he just told me not to worry and that he was fine."  He sighed and continued, "Man.  He pretty much took a bullet for me.  I mean, I guess it was more like some sort of laser but still."    
  
"He would have done what he did today for any of us, wouldn't he?"  Mabel asked.  
  
"Yeah.  Yeah he would have."  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as it would have been fun and creative invent some amazing robot for Fidds to build, I thought it would be more appropriate to come up with a simple solution using what few supplies they had and mostly, I wanted it to be something both he and Stan were a part of creating. I wanted a combined effort from them and I wanted Fidds to be honestly impressed by Stan at some/multiple point(s). Plus I wanted some sort of Gravity Falls-ish creature to be introduced so the mushrooms happened ;).


	14. Poisonous Thoughs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of the night catch up to Stan when he tries to take a quick rest. A discussion between Stan and Ford ends in a way they hadn't planned on. 
> 
> Warnings: Hospital setting, depression, self-depreciating thoughts, arguing. Also... Stan probably shouldn't drive while emotionally compromised but we've all seen how he drives normally so... Buckle up, kids! 
> 
> Sorry there's no art again. I got distracted by drawing other things :P

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Stan's thoughts don't reflect my opinions of him. 
> 
> *I'm just going to... curl up and cry for them both now, okay?

Despite the questionable chemical odor and general oiliness of Mabel's "Glue Get Gone" concoction, Stan swore a shower had never felt so good.  He had to admit Mabel's creation effectively removed everything from the sticky sap to super glue.  He'd asked her once about trying to patent and sell it but she'd laughed and said it would never be legal.  For a moment, he wondered if he should ask her to make up some for the gnomes but when they had parted ways, they assured him they had their own secrets on how to remove something as gooey as the sap gluing their beards to their chests.  He shook his head and muttered aloud, "I don't even want to know."  
  
Even in his lowest moments, Stan figured he had never been quite as grimy as he was upon returning home, not even during their first encounter with the thick, sweetly-scented sap.  Perhaps it was his age or the corrosion of his memories over time (or perhaps the looming threat of being cornered by a homicidal nightmare) but he considered alternating between sweating in swampy heat and shivering in a frozen sap grotto somehow worse than curling up for a frigid night in his car all those years ago.  
  
The return of his head and neck's full range of motion, no longer restrained by his hair's attachment to his back, was a welcome sensation.  His arms were blissfully free of being tacked to the insides of his coat sleeves and he'd finally tugged the last of the spider silk from his beard (though, for a moment, he considered that it might be easier to simply shave it off.)  Mostly, he was grateful to be properly warm again, though his toes itched as if they were covered in fire ants from thawing in the steamy shower.   The only problem was that the shower had increased his drowsiness to the point where he could barely hold a towel around himself.  He didn't even notice when the towel wound over his head slumped back and slid away from his hair into a coil on the floor.  He struggled to fight off the drooping of his eyelids and the ache of arthritis in every joint, promising himself he'd sleep for at least a week once this was over; once he knew Ford would be-    
  
He interrupted his own thoughts as worry struck him.   _Will he ever be able to sail again?  I don't imagine he's going to just walk away from this..._ _Will he ever WANT to sail again?  If he and- and possum-breath become a thing..._  He shook his head trying to disperse the thoughts but one planted itself in mind like a weed whose roots ran too deep to pull.   _He's going to leave me again._    
  
_I can't lose you again!_  The words echoed in his mind in the voices of both his twin and himself.    
_  
He said it too._  He thought. _He said it.  Stop being stupid.  He's not going to leave you after saying something like that, right?_ He nodded to himself.  Despite the lingering roots of worry, Ford's words gave him the strength he needed to keep moving, to not dissolve into a puddle of sleep and soreness on the bathroom floor.    
  
With a fresh layer of Icy Hot slathered over practically every joint and muscle and twice the recommended dose of Tylenol dissolving in his stomach, he slipped into a pair of black slacks and an almost unstained sweatshirt.  The pilled jersey was a poor substitute for the plush wool of the sweater he'd left in the bunker earlier, a casualty of the sap's gooey persistence.  He cringed at the feeling of wrangling himself into semi-presentable clothing again, wishing he could crawl into his bed, curl up in the familiar crater of broken springs, and sleep for the rest of the winter.    
  
He opened the bathroom door letting out a puff of steam and inviting in the smell of fresh brewed coffee.  His feet flopped down the stairs and carried him into the kitchen where Fiddleford had concocted a death brew of coffee, sugar, and energy drinks that would put Mabel Juice to shame, although, he couldn't see through it's sludge-like consistency to tell if there were plastic dinosaurs in it or not.    
  
Fiddleford handed him a mug of the mixture.  He shrugged thinking he was past caring what might be in the mix and raised the mug to his lips, tipping it back.  He nearly gagged on his first swig of the slimy concoction as he forced it down his throat in a lump.  
  
"Bleh!  It's cold!  And," He raised an eyebrow at the sludge as he swirled it in his mug, "Are there raw eggs in this?"  
  
"Gotta git some protein in tha're somehow," Fiddleford said with a crooked grin.  "Believe me, the stuff Ford use'ta brew up was worse.  Had all kinds 'a green gobbledy-gook in it.  Though, guess I wouldn't rightly know, never could git past the color to taste the stuff."  
  
"Ugh!  Like this lovely shade of mud is any better?  Thanks but no thanks."  Stan set the cup on the counter and opened the fridge.  He shook his head to himself as he realized he was actually disappointed that there wasn't a pitcher of Mabel Juice inside.   He closed the fridge and grudgingly lifted his mug again.  With a snort, he grumbled, "Your turn for the shower."    
  
He directed his gaze away from the bow-legged engineer and stared at the sludge in his cup, his stomach flip-flopping at the sight of his brother's blood still tinting Fiddleford's beard with streaks of red-tinted brown.  "I put some towels on the side of the tub for you and Mabel's goop remover is in the dog-shaped bottle by the sink.  Tread carefully.  It could, I dunno, blow up the town or something if you spill it."  
  
"Right-y-o then," he saluted, a little too hyper from slurping down six cups of liquid heart attack.    
  
"Oh and I put some of Ford's clothes in there for you to ya' know...  have something clean to wear.  They're kinda old and smell a bit like the back of a closet that may or may not have been sealed for thirty-some-odd-years but at least they're not dripping in glue," Stan said with a shrug.    
  
"You sure he won't mind?"  Fiddleford asked through blushing cheeks.    
  
"Eh, it's his problem if he does.  You're his...  I dunno, boyfriend or whatever so he's just gonna have to live with it."  Stan waved him off dismissively.  
  
"O-okely-dokelies then," Fiddleford stuttered, staggering out of the kitchen and into the hall.  
  
Stan held his nose and chugged the contents of his mug, finishing the sludge with a gagging "bleh!"  He called after Fiddleford, his shout trailing off to a whisper as he remembered Soos, Melody, and Soos's Abuelita were all still trying to sleep, "Ugh!  Was there moonshine in that too?"  The open flask, tipped on it's side near the coffee pot, answered his question.  He stuck out his tongue wishing he could wipe the taste off of it and tipped his mug upside down in the sink.    
  
He checked Mabel and Ford's phones, plugged in and laying on the counter, to find them not even half-charged yet.  "Landline it is," he muttered, reaching for the rotary phone.  He carried it to the table, sat with a grunt of both relief and pain, and dialed Dipper's number.    
  
Dipper picked up on the third ring, speaking in a hushed tone, "Hello?"  
  
"Hey kid, it's me.  How's Ford doing?"  
  
"He...  Woke up for a few seconds a little while ago.  He's sleeping now."  
  
The hesitation in Dipper's reply set Stan's nerves on edge.  "So, um, is he gonna be okay?"  
  
"I think so.  A doctor came by a few minutes ago and told us she thinks he'll recover but that he'll need physical therapy once he's healed up enough.  I guess he's really lucky some of those cuts didn't go a little deeper.  I don't really understand it all but they said he's got a lot of muscle and nerve damage."  
  
"Far as I can tell he's lucky he doesn't have a severed spine," Stan said, pressing his hand to his forehead as he considered how severe Ford's wounds could have been.  
  
"Yeah," Dipper paused, presumably following the same train of thought.  After a moment of dead air, he asked, "So how about you and McGucket?  Are you alright?"   
  
"We're alright.  A bit roughed up and a whole lotta exhausted but we're home now and that walking nightmare is frozen solid for the winter.  McGucket says we still gotta figure out a permanent solution for what to do with it but it's taken care of for now.  Anyway, I'm ready to head to the hospital but McGucket's still gotta get cleaned up.  Problem is, I'm not gonna be able to get in touch with my contact about Ford's ID until later today."  
  
"Don't worry about it.  We kinda-sorta ended up telling someone here the truth and she said to just bring it whenever we can."  
  
"Wait so...  someone there knows we're handing them a fake ID?"  
  
"I guess.  But she knows who you guys are and seems willing to work with us on this."  
  
"Wow.  Alright then."  
  
"Yeah, guess your hero status gets us a free pass," Dipper joked.  
  
Stan chuckled, uncertain of how to reply.  He decided to tie up the conversation and maybe try to catch a quick five minute nap while Fiddleford finished in the shower.  Knowing his brother was alive and recovering took an enormous weight off of his mind but left him relying only on the sludge he'd just consumed to keep him awake and moving.  He flopped into his old chair, breathlessly tired and fell straight asleep for all of two minutes before Fiddleford's death brew kick-started his heart.  With his nerves buzzing under its influence, he couldn't handle sitting still.  He groaned and lifted himself to his feet, walked two laps around he living room, and found himself pacing the length gift shop.    
  
His feet ached, feeling every beat against the floor through the worn soles of his slippers, but they carried him back and forth and finally, through the curtain and into the museum where he'd led tours just a few days ago.  The lights flickered on with a flip of the aged and sparking switch beside the entrance.  He took a step forward into the familiar exhibition and glanced around at his life's work.    
  
Soos had kept everything well maintained and created a roped off display for the new wire and leaf model of an el-leaf-ant Stan had put together before sailing away for the summer.  He smiled, at first, thinking of the hard work he'd put into sculpting the chicken wire frame and how he'd coated it in paper mache he'd made from old newspapers before gluing on each individual dried leaf.  For a moment, he was almost proud of the quality of his construction.  It had certainly come far since he'd first opened the old Murder Hut.     
  
_It's a mockery of everything he loved._  The thought shot through his mind, piercing it as if someone else had spoken it, yet it was his own voice.  He clutched his chest as it stabbed at his heart.  His knees wobbled and he found himself folded on the creaking wooden floor, one arm shaking as he braced himself against it.    
_  
You screwed up again.  You were so focused on getting him back that you didn't see that you were destroying everything he built along the way.  He couldn't even give them his own name at the hospital because of you.  You stole everything from him and made a life for yourself at his expense._  
  
He tried to fight back, his defense more abstract, more like the unspoken thought it was.    
  
_No.  I was trying to help!  Everything I did was for him!  To get him back!  To save him!_  
  
_Or was it for yourself?  To give yourself a new life, a new start?_  
  
_I didn't have to stay here!  I didn't have to spend thirty years of my life pandering to tourists, learning about physics, and figuring out how to break his ridiculous codes!_  
  
_What else were you going to do?  Stay in that hotel until Rico and his goons caught up with you?_  
  
_I..._  
  
_You were just riding on his coattails again weren't you?  Screwing up everything he tried to do, ruining his life even more.  
_  
_"It wasn't easy in the other dimensions."_ Ford's hesitantly uttered confession replayed in his head.  
  
_He called you for help and what did you do?  You pushed him straight into the Hell he was trying to escape._  
_  
But I was just fighting back!  He pushed me too far!_  
  
_And then he apologized but you just had to keep on going.  You couldn't let things go could you?_  
  
_Neither could he!  He left me!  He broke our promise and left!_  
  
Ford's admission, perforated with pained pauses, replayed in his mind.   _"You stood up to bullies for me when it came to my hands but you always made fun of me for being a nerd.  You put me down for liking what I did.  I just wanted to find people or a place where I could feel valid."_  
  
_And he did...  this town.  He built this place to get away from the people who made fun of him and you invited them in.  He built this place to celebrate the things he loved and you turned it into a circus sideshow that belittled it all, just so you could scam people.  You're nothing but the punchline to a terrible joke.  It's all your fault.  
__  
I was just trying to help.  Trying to get him back.  I didn't know!_  
  
_And then you disowned him when he wouldn't thank you, when he needed you the most._  
  
This time it was his own words which played back in his mind, _"Y_ _ou were dealing with that on your own?  Patching up your own damn torture wounds?"_  
_  
He was being tortured while you were sulking like a spoiled kid.  He could have been killed and you didn't even care.  
  
He didn't care after I was kicked out!  Oh who am I kidding?  _ _Everything I do is wrong...  I AM a worthless failure!  I'm a terrible person.  I shouldn't even exist.  Everyone would have been better off!_  
  
His legs shook as he stood, using the wooden door frame as a crutch.  He glanced around at the exhibits he'd spent a good portion of his life creating.   
  
_It's all a joke, just like me...  
  
How could you blame him for being angry?  You stole his home, his life, his name-  
  
Because I didn't want to be that stupid, worthless, failure, Stan, anymore! _  
  
His hands balled into tingling fists at his sides.  He raised his right arm, stepping into the punch.  His fist sailed toward a taxidermy were-bear with plaster fangs and a wolf's tail.    
  
"Stan?  Where'd ya' git off to?"    
  
His fist stopped 3 inches away from his creation at the sound of Fiddleford's voice.  He lowered his hand, his breath puffing out in gasps through his parted lips.    
  
"I- In here," He answered, his voice shaking more that he would have liked.  He turned, flicked the lights off, and took a wobbly step through the curtain and into the gift shop.  
  
"Oh th'are ya are.  Whoa, you alright?" Fiddleford asked with a tilt of his head.    
  
If it had been any other time, Stan would have laughed at how ridiculous Fiddleford looked with a pair of Ford's pants gathered around his waist by a frayed leather belt and the hems pooled around his ankles.  Ford's thirty-odd-year-old orange shirt hung like a blanket over his thin shoulders, the sleeves flopping over his hands.  
  
Stan stifled his downward spiral of thoughts as if smothering them under a heavy quilt and answered, "Yeah.  Fine.  Just...  Tired is all."  
  
"Doesn't look like jus' tired ta' me."  Fiddleford scratched his hairless head, appearing uncomfortable without his ever-present hat.      
  
"I'm fine.  Let's just go," Stan snapped.  He snatched a brown cap with a question mark printed on it from the shelf beside him and dropped it onto Fiddleford's head.  "Your head looks cold.  Here.  Keep it."    
  
"Thanks.  You sure you'll be alright drivin' like that?"  He asked, tipping the hat into a comfortable position.    
  
"I told you I'm fine."  
  
****  
  
Ford drifted in and out of sleep, in and out of fragments of dreams, few of which lasted long enough nor were clear enough to remember.  Some were lucid, allowing him to rein them in, others nothing more than a faded image.  In a pause between glimpses of dimensions far away, he could hear voices whispering softly to one another.  He tried to open his eyes but they wouldn't budge.    
  
The unmistakable gritty voice of his brother asked, "Wait, what?  Why did they have to do that?"    
  
"I think he was having more flashbacks or hallucinating or something," Dipper's near-whisper answered.   
  
"We have to talk to him when he wakes up," Mabel said, "He needs help."  
  
"What you mean, like a shrink or something?"  Stan asked.    
  
"Well we'd prefer to call them therapists," a male voice Ford didn't recognize said, "And yes.  There's no shame in seeking help or even needing medication."  
  
To Ford's surprise, Stan replied, "Eh.  I know.  I'm on it myself."  For as many times as he'd asked Stan if he'd taken his medication he'd never heard him admit to being on any so openly.    
  
The unidentified voice continued, "Well, then you know the importance-"  
  
"Yeah yeah.  Look, we'll talk to him, alright.  I get it.  He's been to Hell and back.  I don't care how many degrees he has, he can't keep trying to get through whatever this is on his own.  Though, heh, I gotta admit I'm almost proud that trying to sedate him was like trying to take down an angry moose."  
  
Despite the war the discussion had instigated in his mind, Ford would have laughed if his body would have let him.  Yet, as sleep overtook him once more, he couldn't help detecting the mask of humor in his brother's voice.  He wished he had the strength to stay awake; to ask him what was wrong.      
  
****    
  
The next time Ford awoke, it was an oddly peaceful sensation, as if rousing from the restful sleep offered by the pillow fort dimension (one of the most relaxing dimensions he'd visited, in his opinion, though he worried about how little its residents managed to get done with their high priority on sleep).  He awoke with with no memory of any dreams and this time, his eyes opened on command, showing him little more than a blurred dimness.  He found himself laying on his side, mostly covered by his dark green blanket from his bedroom back at the Mystery Shack.  Pain pounded in his head as he tried to look around.  He squinted, trying to see through the blurriness but unable to distinguish anything other than darkened blotches against a haze of blue-gray.  In the distance he could her the shuffling of feet, murmured voices, and rhythmic beeps.  The room itself was silent aside from two distinct snores, one light with a slight whistle, the other loud, slobbery, and incredibly close.  
  
_Stan?  
_  
As the waking world solidified around him, he could feel his twin's hand resting atop one of his own.  If he squinted narrowly enough, he could almost make out the shape of Stan's head tipped sideways over his arms on the edge of the bed, his mouth hanging open.  He smiled faintly, happy to let his brother continue his familiarly cacophonous slumber.  He tried to move his left hand but met resistance against his palm, thumb, and the foremost half of his fingers.  He lifted it, bringing it close to his eyes.  The white blurs almost wholly coating it sharpened into strips of gauze and medical tape wrapped around his splinted palm and fingers.  He almost groaned audibly at the discomfort of the IV prodding him near the crook of his elbow, the tube taped to his arm and trailing off somewhere behind him.  Placed methodically below the hospital gown (whose neck was currently doing its best to choke him) were sticky tabs attached to leads and wires which draped over his side, also trailing off to a place he could not turn to see.  He could only assume there was a heart monitor of some sort behind him.    
  
He bit his lip as his brother stirred, worrying that he'd woken because of his shifting and slight fidgeting.  He froze, hoping to allow Stan to return to his rest, but it was too late.  His twin's arms moved and his fingers tightened around his hand.  His tension eased into a faint smile as he reached out and ruffled Stan's hair the best he could with his immobilized fingers.    
  
"Mmm,"  Stan murmered and yawned, one arm stretching to the side.  He smacked his lips and wiped his eyes, his smudged glasses tipping up to his forehead.  They dropped back down, resting crookedly on his nose as he lifted his head from beneath his brother's hand.    
  
"Ford?" he said in a breathy mumble which escalated to an almost excited whisper, though, Ford swore it was underscored by a nervous twitch.  "Ford!  You’re back."    
  
"I suppose so.  Where did I go?"  He chuckled, trying to lift his head up.    
  
Stan's hand clapped down between the bandages wrapped around his arm.  He shook his head and scolded him in a hiss, "Don't try to get up.  You're gonna pop your stitches."  With a sigh, his voice stiff and forced, he answered, "I imagine you went through Hell…  Do you remember anything?"  
  
"Fragments.  It’s…  Scattered.  I can deduce which parts weren't real but I couldn't see what  _was_ real during those moments."    
  
"Well I’m told you were having flashbacks or hallucinations or something and after that, you were, well...  They called it chemically restrained."  
  
"And physically, if what I remember was not a particularly vivid hallucination," Ford whispered back, wincing as the second snore sputtered somewhere in the blurriness surrounding him.  
  
Stan paused until the whistled snore evened out and answered, "Oh.  Right.  The kids said you woke up for a minute there.  You remember that?"  
  
"More clearly than some fully awakened moments," He closed his eyes, thinking back on it with a grateful smile.  "If it wasn't for them, I...  I don't even know.  They're...  They just amaze me."  
  
"Yeah.  Me too," Stan smiled for a moment and the seemingly frigid air about him almost dissipated.    
  
"Are they here or have they gone home to rest?"  Ford squinted again, trying to make out the blurred blobs of darkness.    
  
"Yeah they're right over- oh.  I guess you can't see much of anything without these," Stan said, reaching for what Ford assumed was a table beside the bed.  He pressed Ford's folded glasses into his hand.  "Here.  Dipper cleaned them for you," he said coldly and, as if realizing how curt he'd been, he added with a forced lift to his voice, "You ever gonna get that cracked lens fixed?"  
  
"Thank you.  Yes, I suppose I should invest in a new pair or two someday."  Ford clumsily slid them on without lifting his head, every movement drawing more attention to a stinging network of pain sliced across his back.  He glanced around, the dark splotches becoming clearer to him.  Dipper and Mabel had made nests out of two chairs whose arms were butted against each other in the corner.  Dipper slept curled up, his head on Mabel's shoulder and his coat draped over him.  Mabel slept sprawled back in her chair, a cream colored knitting project draped over her lap.  The source of the second snore was coiled tightly like a cat in a chair beside the foot of Ford's bed with a snowy white beard draped over what appeared to be an assortment of clothing rescued from the boxes inside his closet.  Fiddleford.    
  
Ford looked to Stan again to catch a clearer glimpse of him.  Between the wedge of light his room's door let in from the hall and the slits of streetlight filtering between the blinds, he could see the weariness deepening the wrinkles of his brother's face.  Dark circles drooped below his swollen eyes and a web of red sprawled within.  His hair hung in a tousled pony tail and his beard still held the impression of his arm from where he'd slept on it.      
  
"Stan, you look exhausted.  Have you seen a doctor yet?" he asked as his partial memories filed into place.    
  
"Yeah the kids already made me and possum-breath over here get checked out.  Doc said we're both doing great.  We got a little roughed up trying to capture that shape-whatever-whatsit but, no broken bones or nothin'."    
  
"What about the kids?"  
  
"Yeah, they're fine too.  Just worried about you is all." Stan answered with a shrug.    
  
"Have you eaten?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah.  We're good.  Sheesh, what are you, our mom now?"  
  
Ford mumbled a sound of relief and fell silent, closing his eyes and pondering his brother's stiff answers and drooping posture.  It looked, for a moment, as if he'd fallen asleep again, but after a few mind-cleansing breaths he opened his eyes and addressed his twin,  “Stan…?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“…Um.  Okay.  What for?”  He asked with a snort, his head down and eyes staring at his loosely intertwined fingers.  
  
“For staying with Fiddleford and dealing with 210.  How did you subdue it?  Did you capture it somehow?  I assume you must have…”  
  
“Yeah.  We built a trap and froze it in that sap like the dinosaurs,” Stan explained in a matter-of-fact tone, still staring at his fidgeting fingers.    
  
“Incredible.”  
  
“There’s a little more to it than that but I think he wants to tell you about it," he added, shaking his thumb toward Fiddleford.  "So, uh…  Yeah.  I'll just let him do that.”    
  
"I-  I'm sorry," Ford said, still trying to break whatever chill had surrounded his twin.  
  
"Why?"  Stan asked with a weak shrug.  
  
"I'm sorry that another one of my problems came back to bite you."  
  
"Heh," Stan forced a laugh but still would not meet Ford's eyes, "It's just lucky I didn't punch it into confetti."    
  
Ford sighed, his splinted hand absently tracing a winkle in the sheet beside him.  He decided to try the direct route, even if he was sure he wouldn't get an equally direct answer.  "Stan?  What's wrong?"  
  
"Huh?  Nothin'.  I'm fine."  He waved his hand, dismissing the matter.    
  
"Seriously, Stan?  You think I don't know any better?"  
  
"I said it's nothing.  Maybe I just don't like seeing you lying in a hospital bed with your back shredded so bad you can't even sit upright," he snapped, crossing his arms and turning slightly away.    
  
Ford submitted to silence again, his thoughts swirling in his mind.  So much had happened.  So much had been said by 210, Fiddleford, and himself, things he wished could have remained buried but he knew could not.  He cursed himself for saying as much as he had.  Somewhere deep in his gut he knew it was the root of Stan's slouched shoulders and abrupt answers.    
  
"Ford..." Stan said in a barely audible whisper, his eyes shifting to stare at his brother's exposed wrists.    
  
"Yeah?" Ford answered, his hands recoiling under Stan's gaze.    
  
"What did that- that demon do to you?"  
  
Ford bit his bottom lip, uncertain of how to answer, where to begin, or even if his mind would allow the truth through his lips.    
  
"It's true isn't it?  You _were_ tortured.   _Tortured_!  And you didn't even think to mention it to us?  You didn't think to mention it to me when I told you about how angry I was?  About how I- I wasn't willing to help you?  About how I was just going to leave you there?  You just bottled it up and took care of your own wounds because it's what you've always done?  How bad was it for all of those years?"  
  
"It... wasn't all bad.  Early on I had invaluable help.  But after that, it was just...  Well, I grew accustomed to being alone and doing whatever I had to in order to survive.  I- I imagine it was a little like what you went through after dad..." he trailed off as his the color drained from his twin's face, visible even in the gray dimness.      
  
Given the near-horrified expression dragging Stan's cheeks and wrinkles down, Ford's attempt to shift the attention back to Stan, to try to show empathy for his earlier struggles, had clearly backfired.  
  
"Was it really that bad?  For thirty years?" Stan asked in a voiceless whisper.  His hand shook as it pushed his glasses up, resting it over his eyes. "Of course it was.  Damn.  I mean...  At least I had my car.  You had what?  Whatever was in your pockets?"     
  
"Stan..."  He stretched, reaching forward to rest his hand on his twin's arm.  
  
"Will you stop tryin'a move already?!" Stan snapped, pulling away.    
  
"Stan please...  I'm sorry...  I didn't mean to bring that up."  
  
"Yeah, well, just stay still so-"  
  
"I'm sorry!"    
  
The younger twins stirred at Ford's outburst.    
  
"I'm sorry I didn't try to stop dad."  
  
"You already said that," Stan huffed, trying to keep his voice down, watching as Dipper and Mabel seemed to settle back into sleep.    
  
"Did you really resent me for it?"  Ford asked.  "Of course you did.  I resented myself for it.  Everything was so messed up and as much as I tried I couldn't sort out what I felt enough to make any decision on what to do about it.  So...  I just distracted myself."  
  
Stan breathed deeply and answered, "Yeah. Part of me resented you.  But most of me just...  Wanted to see you again.  I tried to call a few times but never had the courage to say anything when you picked up.  But, I understand why you didn't stop dad.  Ma didn't even try to stop him and if she didn't, what were you supposed to do?  You were probably scared and..." Stan paused his thought shifting as he continued, "Did you really believe that stuff that monster said when it turned into dad?  Did you really believe he thought you were- I can't even say it."  
  
"An effeminate misfit?" Ford filled in the blank in a downtrodden inflection.     
  
"Yeah.  That."  
  
Ford considered it for a moment.  Their father had never said it directly but he didn’t have to.  The amount of times he told him to man-up after a bullying incident and his incessant sighs and the way he’d shake his head whenever Ford was crouched over a sketchbook were enough. _Well you know what, I’m sorry I wasn’t born to be a champion boxer or football player.  I’m sorry I was so weird that I was the equivalent of girl repellent.  I'm sorry if I wasn't actually even attracted to anyone!  I’m sorry I was such a huge disappointment.  I tried to make up for it by getting good grades, by trying to win awards, by trying to be good at something but it never felt like enough._  His thoughts raced and he had no idea which he could manage to speak.  Finally he sighed and said, "He never said it outright but…  He had a way of making us both feel worthless, didn’t he?"  
  
"He pretty much told me outright how worthless I was.  But...  I never knew you felt that way too."  
  
"Well you sure proved him wrong, didn’t you?"  Ford smiled, reaching out to rest his bandaged hand over Stan's.   _But I never did.  They were right about me…_ he thought, having neither the energy nor the desire to speak his mind.   
  
"Yeah, maybe.  I dunno," Stan answered without a hint of the beaming smile a compliment on his heroic actions would normally elicit.  He grunted, annoyed that Ford was doing the same thing he had been for the past year and a half; dodging questions, giving vague answers, and shifting the focus away from himself.  He'd spilled his soul to Ford as memories came back to him, telling tales he'd never so much as mentioned to anyone else but he still knew nothing more than a few snippets of what Ford had been through.    
  
He'd only caught glimpses of what Ford had thought and felt, all of which had sent him into a downward spiral through an exponentially multiplying haze of guilt and poisonous thoughts.  But he needed to know more.  He didn't know if it was because of curiosity, honestly caring, or just so he could give the abusive voice in his own mind more fuel.  The more he dwelt on it, the more he wondered what his own opinions, feelings, and memories had caused Ford to feel; if they had made him feel the same things he had felt only hours ago in the museum at the Mystery Shack. _Did I screw up again by telling him all of that?  Idiot!  You can't do anything right, can you?!_

His descending thoughts eased as Ford shifted, tugging the neck of his hospital gown away from his scar-streaked throat.  The sight wrung his stomach, not because of the scars themselves but because he didn't want to imagine what might have caused them or how Ford had managed to deal with them on his own.  He'd had enough trouble tending to the burn on his own back thirty years ago, though, to be honest, the physical pain was little more than an annoyance compared to the panic, guilt, and pure grief clawing at his heart and mind as he toiled away night after night.    
  
His thoughts parted and the words, _"Nobody will ever love you,"_ spoken by the sepia mockery of their mother stood out against the tangle.  
  
_That creature was reciting things it learned from before Ford called me for help. He must have believed that back then!_ Stan thought.      
  
_"Did you really resent me?  Of course you did."_  Ford's words replayed in his mind.  

 _Did he think I hated him?  I was angry but...  I didn't hate him...  I just wanted us to be brothers again.   How could he have thought I didn't love him?_  
  
His eyes shifted to Ford and he worked up the courage to ask, "When that thing tried to imitate mom...  The things it said were...  Ford, did you really believe all of that?  Did you really think she hated you?  That no one loved you?"   
  
"…I-"  Ford began, unsure of how to formulate an answer.  He did believe all of it at one point.  She had never said anything directly but it was true that she was never the same after Stan was kicked out.  She tried to hide it but he knew how often she cried.  He knew she had hoped Stan would stay close to home and give her the grandchildren he felt he couldn’t.  He did believe, more than thirty years ago, when he’d isolated himself because it was easier to simply be lonely rather than constantly rejected, frequently embarrassed, and always uncomfortably failing at conversation and making connections, all while _still_ being lonely, that no one would ever love him.  He did believe he was a failure in his father’s eyes unless he could finally return home rich and famous.  He did believe that even if he managed that, his mother would still be disappointed unless he also returned with a girlfriend or wife.  And even though he was infinitely grateful, he did believe that Fiddleford had only agreed to help him because he offered a fair salary and the promise of sharing in the rewards of their endeavor.  But mostly, he did believe that maybe, just maybe, if he succeeded with the portal, he could finally be worthy of love, or at least, of existing.    
  
When he discovered he’d been betrayed, that he’d failed at the one thing he thought he could be good at, he’d quite honestly given up on the idea of ever being anything but alone.  He knew he had to fix his mistakes and when he called for help only to find Fiddleford had erased him completely from his mind, he’d turned to the only person he believed he could trust and, in his sleep-deprived paranoia, promptly stomped on any chances of a reconciliation.  When he found himself on the other side of the portal, the thought of righting his wrongs and destroying the demon who’d betrayed him were the only things keeping him going.  He’d survived Hell out of sheer spite.  He'd failed and failed and failed again, and worst of all, he'd exposed others to danger in the process.  Yes.  The answer was yes.  He did believe every bit of that.    
  
Until he thought of Dipper and Mabel.    
  
For whatever reason they seemed to actually, honestly love him and he truly returned it.  But when it came to Stan, while he had found a renewed love for his twin, he wouldn’t blame him if he still didn’t return the sentiment, even if he had before.  As for Fiddleford, his mind still froze at the thought of his earlier confession, unable to process it.      
  
Thoughts knotted in his mind, fraying at the ends then plying together again, yet, he couldn’t bring himself to vocalize any of them.  His blanket threaded through his fingers as he sorted out an answer.  Finally, he looked up to Stan and said, "I did believe it, but I don't any more."  
  
"How could you have thought I didn't..." Stan said, his head sinking between his shoulders.  "It's because of that project of yours isn't it?" he said in a huff.  
  
Thoughts buzzed through Ford's mind, pounding against him, begging to be released.   _You think it was just about the project?  You were never going to tell me about it!  You were just going to lie to me forever if I hadn't found out.  It SHOWED me how little you thought of me, that you didn't respect me enough to tell me the truth.  That the things I enjoyed and wanted in life meant so little to you that you wouldn't even bother to say, "hey there might be a problem with your project, maybe you should go check on it."  No!  No no no.  Stop.  Breathe.  It's over.  You've forgiven him and it's over._  
     
Ford took his own advice and breathed in, mentally counting to six, then exhaled until the count of eight.  With the majority of his thoughts stifled, he managed to pry the most positive one away from the mess, "All of that is over now."  
  
"Ford!" Stan shouted, his chair's legs squealing against the floor as he stood.   
  
Dipper and Mabel shot up from their chairs as Stan's frustration spilled out.  Fiddleford's feet slipped from the seat of his chair and he caught himself before falling to the ground.  

"What's going on?" Dipper mumbled, his eyes still half closed.  
  
"Grunkle Ford?"  Mabel muttered with a yawn.  

Stan continued, his voice amplifying with every word, "Stop dodging my questions!  Look, I know everything that happened to you is my fault!  I know you resent me for not taking your dumb journal when you asked me to.  I know I screwed up your life.  I know everything I do just makes it all worse!"  
  
"Stan no stop!"  Ford reached out, trying to rest his hand on his arm but he backed away.  Fiddleford scrambled to the bedside, resting his hands between the bandages on Ford's arm to stop him from trying to move or sit up.  "Please don't blame yourself, it's not your fault-"  
  
"I know I can't do anything right so just talk to me.  Stop keeping it all to yourself.  Tell me how much I screwed up!  Tell me how disappointed you are in me!  Tell me how I'm just an overgrown child!"  Dipper and Mabel jumped up from their chairs and tugged at Stan's hands, unsure of whether they were tying to comfort him, calm him, or hold him back from doing something he'd regret.    
  
Ford's eyes squeezed shut.  In a trembling but soft tone, a thought he tried to trap inside escaped, "This is exactly why I haven't talked to you.  I didn't want to make you feel like this."  
  
"Oh great so you can't even talk to me because I'm such a screw up.  Well, I'm sorry I messed up your project.  I'm sorry I ruined up your life.  I'm sorry I'm such a worthless failure!"  
  
Ford's eyes flew open, reddened and damp.  "Will you please stop calling yourself worthless!"  
  
"See?!  Now I can't even apologize right!"  
  
"I didn't say that!  I just want to be able to talk to you without feeling any more guilt!"  The words fell out before Ford could even think them clearly.    
  
"Yeah, well, me too!"  Stan's chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath.  He looked from side to side, realizing that Dipper and Mabel still clung to his arms, each of them hugging one tightly.    
  
Ford bit his bottom lip, his head settling back against the pillow, his hands cradled in Fiddleford's.  Stan fell back into his chair, his hand tangled in his hair, Dipper and Mabel nearly hugging him as his ragged breaths threatened to unleash the tears his eyelids struggled to restrain.      
  
"Hey Stan..." Ford broke the chaotic silence with a gentle whisper.  "I know everyone wants me to see a therapist..."  
  
"Oh." Stan struggled to reply in an even tone, "You heard that?"  
  
"Yeah," he paused, trying to arrange his thoughts into the appropriate words, "Maybe...  Maybe it would be easier if- if you went with me?"    



	15. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan returns to the hospital feeling somewhat better after his family talked him into going home for a proper night's rest. Dipper and Mabel arrange for some alone time for Ford and Fiddleford but things don't play out as they had hoped. 
> 
> Warnings - Torture mention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this chapter has some happier stuff in it! Though it still has some er... not so happy. Recovery doesn't happen all at once, especially emotional recovery. It's going to take some time for everyone. 
> 
> Special thanks to usually-confused.tumblr.com and minimysterytwins.tumblr.com for looking over things for me!

Stan strode through the hospital's sliding glass doors, brushing the light dust of snow off of the shoulders of his new wool coat.  With one hand, he clutched a paper grocery bag by its rolled top, with the other, he waved to the receptionist.  She replied warmly, "Good morning, Mr. Pines.  How are you today?"  
  
"Pretty good, how are you?" he answered, smiling as he realized he was telling the truth.  
  
His muscles had stopped aching, his exhaustion had ebbed and, most of all, his outlook had improved.  A night of proper rest in his own bed really did make a difference.  He'd fought the idea of leaving the hospital at first, but Fiddleford had a good point when he mentioned that it was his turn to take a break.  Fiddleford had protested the idea of taking one himself, but they'd made him go home the night before.  The younger twins had put up the same fight, but Stan had insisted that they needed rest on the previous night.  So, between Dipper and Mabel's begging, Ford's insistence that they'd all be incredibly upset if something happened to him because of pushing himself, and his own exhaustion, Stan couldn't resist.  Besides, their therapy sessions had left him with quite a bit to mull over and the offer of some alone time to do so was pretty tempting.             
  
He had been surprised at how fast Dipper and Mabel had managed to talk a therapist into not only seeing Ford and himself but coming the the hospital to do so.  They'd told him all they had to do was mention his name and she agreed to clear space in her schedule for them, although, given the time slot she'd chosen for the past three days, he assumed she was seeing them on what was supposed to be her lunch break.  Each day, when she arrived, a nurse had helped Ford to sit upright, granting him permission to remain that way for the full session if he felt able, as long as he was mindful of his injuries.  So far, he'd done well and even managed to move into a chair for their most recent session.      
  
As skeptical as Stan was about the whole thing, thanks to his past encounters with psychiatric care, he had to admit that the field had come a long way over the years, or perhaps, he'd finally encountered a therapist who was compatible with him and, as far as he could tell, with Ford too.  She'd split their first session, spending half of it individually with Stan and the other with Ford to get to know a little more about each of them.  During the second session, she suggested they each work on their low self-worth as a priority.  By the end of the third session, she'd offered them exercises to begin rebuilding what their father, the school bullies, and their life experiences had chipped away.    
  
Stan had initially dismissed her suggestions as complete hokum, stubbornly refusing to even try.  Yet, when he found himself alone in the bathroom and, yet again, in his old bedroom at the shack, curiosity got the better of him.  He started simple, using the breathing exercises Ford had highly endorsed, saying they'd helped him for years.  He didn't notice much difference aside from the general pleasantness of taking a break for a few deep breaths, but, he decided it wouldn't hurt to keep trying since he actually did enjoy it.   _The problem will be remembering to actually keep doing it_ , he thought.  
  
Next, he ran through her idea of believable affirmations.   
  
"People often say you should stand in front of a mirror and tell yourself how beautiful and amazing you are but the problem with that is, if you don't believe those things, they'll probably just make you feel worse," She had explained,  "You need something you can't deny, no matter how insignificant you think it is.  'I put on pants today' is good enough if it makes you feel better about yourself.   Little things add up over time."      
  
The more he thought about it, the more he felt the truth in it.  People called him a hero but it was such a grandiose idea that his mind rejected it.  He'd smile or thank them but inside, he couldn't help feeling that it wasn't true, that those things never actually happened, that it was just some story his mind made up to make him feel less like a failure.  He needed to connect the little things together, he needed those small, everyday realities to ground himself and, more importantly, to help forgive himself.  Maybe once he built a foundation of positive things he did believe, he hoped he could begin to believe the hype about his heroism.      
  
He considered a few things he couldn't deny, ranging from the fact that he'd showered that day to how he'd punched the shape shifter in the form of a raging pterodactyl in the face just a few days ago.  While those things did help, the thoughts that seemed most effective and surprisingly believable were of Dipper, Mabel, Soos, and Wendy.  He'd think of teaching Soos how to fix a loose floorboard, of setting off fireworks with Dipper and Mabel, of cooking breakfast for them every morning, and of his beaming pride when he found out that Wendy borrowed his tricks to con a conman into handing over an extra $50 when he tried to run his scam in the Mystery Shack's gift shop.    
  
Things became slightly less believable when it came to Ford, but he ran through the thought process anyway out of a personal need to do so.   _He hasn't talked to me much yet but it's been because he cares, because he didn't want to hurt me.  He will when we're both ready._ Though it was difficult to wade through the southward spiraling thoughts in order to reach that conclusion, he was able to use something Ford had said as a lifeline to guide him there.  It was merely a reassurance of all he'd been saying for the past year and a half but it seemed, perhaps thanks to sailing together, like it was finally etched into his mind as truth.  "Everything turned out for the best.  Bill has been defeated.  We're all safe.  You brought me home against all odds and you gave me something I had lost hope of ever having again.  A family.  Even if it hadn't turned out this way, you had the best of intentions in mind and you tried.  Your heart was in the right place and that's what really matters."  
  
Besides the breathing and the affirmations, Stan was grateful for feeling a bit of weight lifted from his conscience.  During their second session, he had ventured into dark territory a little, bringing up his immense guilt over his refusal to help Ford when he was Bill's prisoner.  With a little coaching from the therapist, Ford was able to open up about it, though he still avoided details and, when he clutched one of his scarred wrists, visibly shaken up, the therapist had told him he'd said enough for one session.  It was then that she handed him the card of one of her colleagues, a psychologist who specialized in PTSD and who had experience with torture survivors.  She advised him to set up video chat sessions as soon as he felt able, to which he hesitantly agreed.      
  
Though it had hurt to hear the truth of what his brother had been through, it had helped him to deliver a sincere and straightforward apology, to understand the full extent of what he was apologizing for, and what Ford had already forgiven him for.  Thanks to Ford's response, his guilt had begun to dissipate.       
  
"You're human, Stan," Ford had said, "You couldn't have known what was happening and you were angry and upset and you reacted like any human would.  If I held that against you, I would be the world's biggest hypocrite.  Of course I forgive you."  
  
Stan knew there was still much more to work through.  He knew there would still be discussions which could very well escalate into heated arguments in their future but he hoped, with their therapist's help, they would get through them and understand more about each other along the way.  He hoped that they could joke and laugh and regain something akin to the sibling relationship they'd once shared, but perhaps, with a few new accommodations for each other which they had never known they should have been considering.  But for now, he had some donuts to deliver to the occupants of room 325.  He'd been so preoccupied with his thoughts that he'd made it past the security desk, down the hall, and into the elevator on complete autopilot.    
  
He tapped his foot impatiently as the elevator rose to the third floor.  The doors rattled open and he stepped out of the stale smell of mildew and into the odorous hodgepodge of too many breakfast foods layered with cheap coffee and antibacterial cleansers.  He strolled through the hall toward his brother's room, the path well memorized over the past few days.  The nurses behind the wood paneled nursing station, all of whom he'd gotten to know on a first name basis, waved to him.  Thanks to the murmurs of his heroism during what they called "the unpleasantness", they had assured that Ford, the younger twins, Fiddleford, and himself had as close to all the comforts of home as possible.  They had accepted Ford's false identification information with no questions asked and kept any other prying to a minimum.  They'd brought two reclining chairs into Ford's room and even offered up the second bed for his family to use as long as no emergencies arose.    
  
Fiddleford had taken them up on the offer last night, mumbling about how the lumpy spare bed was better than most places he'd slept for the past thirty years, which apparently included under a Jeep at Gleeful's Auto Sale and behind a rack of clearance t-shirts at Edgy on Purpose.  Before anyone could suggest he go home to rest properly again, he'd already settled in with his coat as a blanket and his hat as an eye mask, both finally free of sap thanks to Mabel's miracle glue remover.    
  
Stan entered the room to find the spare bed empty and a bright light pouring in from beyond the room-dividing curtain beside it.  He kept his steps soft as a precaution until he could see beyond the blue curtain's shadow.  The blinds were open revealing the cracked frost which hugged the window's corners and glittered in the morning sun.  The overbed table had been rolled aside, a smudged but otherwise empty plate and a cup containing a used teabag resting on its top.    
  
Ford was not only awake but sitting up with the laptop he and Stan shared perched on the bed in front of him.  Bandages were still wrapped snugly around his tousled hair, his left hand was still cradled in a splint, and his back was still coated in strips of white.  His IV remained taped near the crook of his elbow but had been disconnected from its path of tubing and saline drip.  Overgrown stubble shaded his chin, but the wrinkles of his cheeks lifted with enthusiasm as he focused on the laptop's screen, nearly cross-eyed, his tongue clenched between smiling lips in concentration.    
  
Both younger twins leaned over the bed, their attention locked on the screen.  Their eyes appeared brighter than they had over the past few days.  Stan guessed the reclining chairs had offered them a decent night's sleep.  From the opposite side of the bed, Fiddleford shifted between grinning fondly at the look on Ford's face and watching lines appear on the screen as Ford swiped a stylus across the black surface of the tablet Mabel had picked out for him on their third evening in town.  He pointed to the screen and said, "Naw' Their caps were flatter than that."     
  
"Oh, alrigh-" Ford paused as he heard Stan's steps approaching.  "Hello, Stan.  Were you able to get some rest?" he greeted him, his voice blending with the younger twins' chorus of "Hi Grunkle Stan!"  
  
"Yeah, slept like a hibernating bear straight through the night.  Looks like they're letting you sit up for more than an hour at a time now, huh?" Stan asked, approaching Ford's bed.    
  
"Even better, they helped him walk around a bit this morning," Mabel said with breathy enthusiasm.    
  
"Yes, it was nice to walk more than the few steps to the washroom," Ford added, a warm blush rising in his crinkled cheeks.    
  
"Good.  Hopefully you'll be out of here in no time, right?  So, whatcha' doing there?" Stan asked as he leaned over to see a partially lined illustration depicting something similar to the glowing mushrooms that had helped them capture the shape shifter.  "McGucket's right," Stan said, "Their caps were wide and sort of flat."  
  
With the free fingers of his splinted hand, Ford pressed a button on the black tablet repeatedly, erasing a line on the screen with each click.  He swished the stylus across its surface creating curves and clicking to undo them multiple times, eliciting a chuckle from Stan.  
  
"Tough to get used to huh?"  Stan asked.  
  
"Well it certainly is different from drawing on paper.  Though I must admit this undo feature is quite handy.  There!  Is that more like it?" he asked, pointing to his illustration of a mushroom which somehow held the demeanor of a playful puppy.  
  
"Yeah actually I think that captures them pretty well," Stan said.  He looked across the bed to Fiddleford and asked, "Hey, you tell him what you thought you guys should call 'em?"    
  
"Not yet." Fiddleford answered.  With a proud grin he delivered his pun, "I figured if we'd'a found 'em back in the day, we'd'a called 'em 'Mutt-rooms', right?"  
  
Ford laughed, "Yes that sounds about right!  I can't wait to meet them myself."  
  
"There'll be time fer that," Fiddleford said, "We still gots ta' go back n' figure out what we're gonna do 'bout 210-" he paused and sniffed the air, his nose nearly nuzzling the bag in Stan's hand.  
  
"Little like a bloodhound sometimes, isn't he?" Stan spoke out of the side of his mouth as if trying to funnel the sound directly to Ford.  He lifted his hand to set the bag on the bed but Fiddleford had already swiped it from his grasp and was unfolding the top.  "I got us some donuts but I see you've already had some breakfast, eh Poinde- Ford?"  
  
"Grunkle Stan, can you take us to the cafeteria for something hot like pancakes?"  Mabel asked, her eyes shifting between Ford and Fiddleford.      
  
"Yeah some eggs do sound good," Dipper added, nodding toward the two scientists.    
  
"What?  Since when are donuts not good enough for... oh," Stan sighed as he realized what the kids were getting at.  He had to admit that his brother and Fiddleford were in need of a private conversation.  "Alright fine," he massaged his forehead and played along.  "You wanna stay here and keep Ford company, McGucket?"    
  
He nodded, already biting into his second cinnamon sugar donut.    
  
"Alright then, See you in a bit, Ford."  
  
"Enjoy," he returned Dipper and Mabel's waves as they followed Stan out to the hall.  His gaze returned to the partially lined drawing on the laptop's screen.  "So you say their caps were durable enough to pull nails from two-by-fours?"  
  
"Sure were!" Fiddleford answered through his last mouthful of donut.    
  
"Remarkable.  And they understood when you spoke to them?"  
  
"Indeedily-doo," he licked the sugar from his fingertips, his hands beginning to tremble.   _This is your chance, McGucket.  Talk to him._  "Uh, Ford?  Is is alright if I talk to ya a bit about...  somethin' else?"  
  
"Oh yes certainly," he answered, his eyes still focused on the screen, tongue sticking out as he drew, erased, and redrew another curved line.    
  
"Um...  do you mind if-  I mean, can you take a break for a minute?"  Fiddleford asked, pointing feebly to the laptop and tablet.    
  
"Hmm?  Oh!  I'm sorry.  Yes, of course," Ford saved his work, closed the laptop, and stacked it and his tablet on the bed beside him.      
  
With the electric tingle of every nerve across his chest and stomach, Fiddleford almost wished he'd let Ford keep working while they talked.  It might have been easier than seeing him look at him with those wide owl-eyes.   _Just git it over with.  Spit it out_.  He thought.  After failing at trying to take a breath he spoke in a ramble, "Ford there's somethin' I gotta tell ya'.  I should'a told ya' decades ago but I just didn't know how ta' even start.  Back when we were younger I did somethin' I ain't exact-a-maly proud of."   
    
"Fiddleford, is this about the memory gun?" Ford asked with a tilt of his head.    
  
He nodded.  
  
"I know you used it on me once."  He shrugged before asking, "Was it just the one time?"  
  
Fiddleford swallowed hard, trying to force the anxious knot out of his throat and nodded.  
  
"Fidds, you needn't worry about it.  I already forgave you for that years ago."  
  
"But you apologized proper-like ta me fer everythin' though, so...  I-I'm sorry.  But fer more'n just that.  I'm sorry I wasn't there anymore when ya' probably needed me the most-."  
  
"Please don't be sorry for that," Ford cut off his sentence with a hasty sputter, as if every pent up emotion was trying to flood out through a pinhole at once, "That is entirely my fault.  I regret to this day that I pushed you away.  It was my foolishness that-"  
  
"It was that demon."  Fiddleford interrupted.  "It had such a hold over you.  I-I don't know what kinds'a things it was tellin' ya but I saw what it was doin' to ya.  I just didn't know that's what it was at the time.  I didn't know that's where all yer cuts an' bruises an' paranoia came from."  
  
"Hindsight feels like a curse sometimes, doesn't it?" Ford said with a compassionate smile.  "You reacted the best you could based on what you knew at the time.  You got yourself out of a situation where you were being hurt...  Where I was the one hurting you.  And I'm still so-"  
  
"Stanford Pines, Ya' already apologized a ker-jillion times an I already told ya, I forgive ya.  This is supposed to be my apology to you.  I'm sorry I didn't listen to ya' about the memory gun.  I'm sorry I used it on you so I could keep deceivin' you 'bout it."  
  
"Accepted and forgiven."      
  
"I promise ta' listen to ya' 'bout things in the future, like not erasin' my mind when things get all wonk-i-mi-fied."  
  
"And I promise to listen to you when you warn me that what I'm creating could destroy the world."    
  
The two laughed awkwardly, Ford rubbing the back of his head, ruffling his hair below his bandages and Fiddleford fidgeting with the tapered end of his beard.    
  
"Hey, Ford," he said, his voice shaky, "About what I said back at your place before all of this mess started..."  
  
"Oh.  yes."  Ford's heart jumped to his throat, nearly choking him. _I never replied to him.  What do I do?  What do I say?"  
_  
"Well, I really meant what I said.  I know it's not easy for you to believe it, but do ya' think, maybe if we take it slow we might have a chance?  Maybe after a while ya' could even move into the manor with me n' Tate?"  He bit his lip after the last bit.   _Oh why'd ya have ta' go an' say that.  You're gonna overload him again.  Let's take it slow.  Hey!  How about you move in with me?  Idiot.  
_  
"I'm not entirely sure Tate would be happy about that,"  Ford stalled, trying to make entirely too many decisions all at once.  "I'm sure he's not terribly fond of me."     
  
"We've had a few good talks an' he understands what happened now.  I told him ya' tried ta' stop me from erasin' my mind an' he understands.  And he understands that his mom leavin' me wasn't any one person's fault.  Not yours or mine or hers.  It was pretty much just a build-up of things that happened over time."  
  
"You really did love her, didn't you?" Ford asked with a sympathetic lift of his brows.    
  
"I did.  But there were, well, things she wanted that I was never all that comfortable with, even after tryin' a few times.  And I guess I don't blame her fer lookin' elsewhere for 'em when I started avoiding her 'cause I was confused."  
  
"Is that why there were so many nights that you didn't seem to want to go home?"  
  
"Yeah.  She wanted to do the things that married couples are supposed ta' do and I..." He sighed, staring down at his twiddling fingers, "I couldn't figure out how I could love her so much but be uncomfortable with as little as kissin' her.  Stayin' late...  It was a good excuse ta' say I was tired from work an' just go ta' sleep.  I thought things might'a gotten better when Tate was born 'cause I could go home earlier an' takin' care'a him exhausted us both enough that we'd end up just goin' straight ta sleep, but havin' kids don't solve a couple's problems.  It jus' makes ya feel terrible for bringin' a little guy ya love with all a yer heart into the mess."  
  
"I'm sorry," Ford reached out, resting his hand over Fiddleford's, easing the jittering of his fingers.  "It's a shame none of us knew more at the time."  
  
"Yeah.  I figure if I woulda' known back then, we probably coulda worked somethin' out or at least, parted on better terms.  And maybe, I'd 'a let myself figure out how I felt about you.  But, I guess it's like ya' said 'bout hindsight.  It takes a while ta' git over all that time lost ta' not knowin' any better but I suppose, the sooner we start usin' what we learned toward what we still got left, the better."  
  
"Yes, that's something I'm trying to work on myself," Ford agreed with a sigh.    
  
"So...  what do you say, then?  Do you want to, I dunno, go out sometime or somethin?" Fiddleford asked, looking up to him with an awkward, gap-toothed grin.    
  
_Yes.  I do!  It's everything I've ever wanted!  But Stan...  No!  We're both making real progress now.  I can't.  I...  I can't.  I'm not making that mistake again.  I can't leave him.  I can't lose him again!_    
  
Ford took a deep breath, trying to quell his internal panic.  He released it and asked, "Is it alright if...  Can we... Can we just stay friends?"  
  
****  
  
Ford laid on his side, his green blanket scrunched around his legs, the laptop and tablet still resting within its folds.  He stared blankly at the dust drifting to the ground in the shaft of light streaming through the window.  Every muscle and every limb hurt as his long repressed emotions clawed their way to the surface and tore him apart.  He'd shattered the dream he'd had since his youth with his own words, yet the vision would not leave his mind.  Every time he closed his burning eyes his recurring dream looped over and over, simultaneously more vivid than ever and unraveling at its edges.    
  
The familiar golden light, swaying over the mossy ground, would never be anything more than the result of soundlessly rustling pine needles.  The sight of arms wrapped around him would remain a sensation-less dream, no longer offering any form of comfort, only the wish to forget, to never have that damn dream again, to move on and be "fine" with his work and the family he had.  He tried to tell himself that he was lucky, that he already had everything he needed, that he didn't want to ruin any of it, that he was being selfish to want more, that the last time he chased a dream, he'd hurt people and failed and failed and failed again. _  
  
Things are fine.  Just leave them be.    
_  
But it didn't hurt any less.      
  
He'd made his choice.  As he reflected upon it, he wished he'd had the chance to talk to the therapist about this before it came up again, but they simply hadn't had enough time.  He'd only gotten to speak to her alone once so far and he'd used that time to express his concern for his brother and their relationship.  In the end, they'd agreed it was important for both Stan and himself to address their low self-esteem first.  Over the past year and a half, Ford had listened to Stan's side of their story, trying to push aside his own guilt and self-demeaning thoughts to make space for understanding and empathy, but it didn't mean he didn't feel them.  With that in mind, he understood that in order for him to tell his side, Stan would have to be ready to hear it and he, himself, would need the clarity to tell it with compassion rather than anger, resentment, or an outpouring of emotions so far repressed that even he didn't realize they were there.    
  
When he'd spoken to the therapist, he'd told her the truth, that he felt as though he couldn't open up because he didn't want Stan to blame or hate himself.  All he wanted was for him to understand, to be able to give him the honest answers he had asked for.      
  
"But if I tell him what happened," Ford explained, "If I tell him how I felt, and what some of my opinions were, I know it won't end well.  I _was_ angry.  Not just about the project but because he was going to lie to me about it.  He didn't care how much that opportunity meant to me or how I felt.  He couldn't even spare an apology.  He just went straight to hoping he'd get what he wanted.  He broke my trust and when I tried to trust him again, well, we both made mistakes that day.  He was going to burn a third of my life's work.  He cared so little that he was just going to burn it!"  
  
He explained what had happened, how they'd fought, how Stan had been burned, and how, moments later, he'd found himself on the other side of an interdimensional portal, facing the exact entity he'd sacrificed his health and sanity trying to escape.  He skipped forward thirty years to the day he returned, the story spilling out, "He'd stolen my identity, turned my home into a mockery of everything I loved, and invited in people who ogled anomalies like myself as freakish.  And he wanted me to thank him!  I was hurt.  I was angry.  And he made me feel like I had no right to be.  Am I not allowed to have feelings too?  Am I not allowed to have opinions or preferences?  Am I not allowed to feel hurt because I'm just some freak who deserves to be mocked and who should just take it silently and laugh it off?  Am I supposed to let people walk all over me, steal my name and my home and destroy my life's work with a smile on my face and then thank them for it just because they've had to put up with my differences?"  
  
He'd immediately felt horrible for his outburst and amended it with what he'd realized over time, "I know now that everything that happened was a series of mistakes and accidents and that his heart was in the right place with all he did to bring me back.  I don't see things that way anymore but I feel guilty because I did."  
  
In reply, the therapist had asked, "Has he ever apologized for any of those things?"  
  
"In a way, yes.  He may not have spoken an apology but he always tried to fix things which is a form of apology, I suppose."  
  
"But he's never actually said it?"  
  
"...No."  
  
"Well, it sounds to me like you've apologized to him and you think you've forgiven him," She'd explained, "but I think what you want, what you need, is a real apology from his end.  You need a sincere, verbal apology where he doesn't make you feel guilty by degrading himself and where he understands why you felt the way you did.  Even if everything was a series of accidents and mistakes, you still need it so you can properly forgive him and yourself.  Of course that means you are going to have to open up to him so he can understand, but I see why you haven't done that yet.  It would most likely exasperate his self-worth issues.  However, that's not healthy for you either.  If things keep up this way, you'll grow to resent him and feel even more like your opinions and feelings don't matter."    
  
As luck would have it, he had received one much needed apology in their next session.  His nerves sizzled as the therapist helped him speak up about what had happened while he was Bill's prisoner.  When Stan offered him a sincere apology with no self-loathing attached, it felt as if he'd loosened the vice tightening around his heart.  It felt as if he could begin to breathe again.  It felt as though his brother was finally letting go of some of his own guilt.    
  
_We're making progress.  I'm not leaving him when we're finally making progress.  
_  
"Ford?"  His attention snapped to the figure of his brother standing at the end of his bed, Dipper and Mabel peering around him with concerned expressions.    
  
"Oh, Stan.  Welcome back," he greeted him with reddened eyes, flushed cheeks, and a forced smile.  
  
"Ford, what happened?  Where's McGucket?"    
  
"He...  Went out for a walk."  
  
"Dipper, Mabel, go find him."  Stan instructed, gesturing to the door.    
  
They nodded and left the room, whispering worries to one-another.  Stan edged closer, his expression soft and sympathetic.  "Ford.  What did you do?"  
  
"He asked if I returned his feelings and I..." he paused, his eyes focused on his blanket, watching it wrinkle between his curled fingers, "I just I don't think it would work out between us so I asked if we could remain friends."    
  
"Lying is my specialty, not yours," Stan said, pulling up a chair and settling into it.  "What's really going on?"  
  
"Nothing.  I just don't think it would work out."  
  
"Ford," Stan scolded him.    
  
"We're just not right for each other, that's all."  
  
"You know," Stan began, rubbing his eyes, his glasses tipping over his hand, "I may not be able to stomach being in the same room with him for too long but, seriously, I have never seen two people be as right for each other as you two.  Now tell me.  What is this really about.  No more dodging.  No more changing the subject.  No more lies."    
  
Ford hesitated, biting his bottom lip before the truth escaped him in little more than a whisper, "...I can't lose you again."  
  
Stan huffed out a breath followed by a disgruntled, "Great.  So now you can't even have a relationship because of me."  
  
"Stan..."  In that instant Ford knew exactly what self-depreciating thoughts were unraveling in his brother's mind.  Silence hung over them as Ford searched for anything useful to say, anything that could bring a stop to his twin's descent into mental darkness.  " _No, not at all.  Like I said, we're just not right for each other."  No, that won't work.  "Really, it's alright..."  No._  Finally, he sighed and asked, "How would you have felt if I had said yes to him?"    
  
"Are you kidding, I would have been fine!"  
  
Stan's gruffly snorted lie and theatrical smile were met with a the look of a man who'd worked backstage long enough to know the secrets to every illusion.  
  
With a sigh, Stan's arms draped over his knees and he answered, "Like you were leaving me again."  He paused for a moment before finally working up the courage to ask," Ford, back when we were teens, why did you suddenly feel like you had to go off to college?  Why...?  Why wasn't I enough?"  
  
Ford sighed and answered with the truth he'd unearthed in the past few months, "Because I knew I wasn't."    
  
"W-what?"  
  
"Because we were growing up, Stan.  I knew what that meant, or at least, I thought I did at the time.  It meant leaving childhood dreams behind for reality.  Growing up was supposed to mean getting married, having a family...  And you were already well on your way with Carla.  And I," his eyes drifted away, looking down at the corner of his pillow as he continued, "I needed to find something else because..."  
  
"Because you actually believed what that shape shifter said.  That no one would ever...?"  His voice trailed off, unable to add the words "love you" thanks to a familiar twist in his gut, thanks to knowing exactly how his brother had felt.    
  
"Yeah,"  Ford answered, barely more than an exhale.    
  
"But I did-  I always did.  Even when I was angry, I still did.  You're my brother."  
  
"So you know how I felt for all of those years," Ford said with a half-smile.  "Somewhere in the back of my head, you were still my brother, still the one protecting me from bullies, still the one smiling at me from the bottom bunk.  It _should_ have been enough.  But, I was... scared.  You had every right to want to start a family of your own without me holding you back."  
  
"You were scared _I_ was going to leave _you_ behind?"  
  
He nodded.  "And I thought that if I couldn't do the one thing I was always told humans are supposed to do that I had to do something to make up for it somehow.  And because of that, I broke our promise and I'm not going to do it again.  I already made the mistake of wanting to go out on my own so much that I didn't listen to what you wanted."  
  
"And I already made the mistake of wanting you to stay so much that I didn't listen to what you wanted," Stan stood and leaned over, helping Ford to sit up the way the nurses had shown him.    
  
"Look Ford.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry about what happened with your project.  So," he rested his hand on Ford's shoulder and continued, "Please don't make me the reason you say no to this.  I know what it is I want.  But...  I think I gotta listen to what you want too.  So tell me and be honest.  What do you really want?"  
  
"I want us to be like we were when we were kids again.  But I also want...  I want to try with Fiddleford."  
  
"And what does that mean to you?  Dating or something?"  Stan asked, his joints popping as he settled into his chair again.    
  
"Maybe?  He um...  He mentioned that maybe I could move in with him..."  
  
“You…  you don't want to live in the Mystery Shack anymore?  After you made such a fuss about me getting out of your house?”  
  
“I wasn’t exactly in a healthy state of mind at that time.  The problem is, I’m still not.”  
  
“What do you mean?  Suddenly the Shack’s not good enough for you now that you could move in with a rich…  boyfriend?” Stan said, half angry, half joking.    
  
“Stanley, no.  You made that old place into a warm and wonderful home for you, Soos, Dipper, Mabel, and even Wendy.  But to be honest, that house hasn’t been my home for more than thirty years.  There are too many painful memories there."  
  
"Oh like how I turned it into a mockery of everything you loved?" Stan's tone grew louder, almost shouting.  
  
"No.  It's not that!" Ford interrupted, "I admit I saw it that way at first but I don't anymore.  You poured your heart and soul into what you created there.  It's your art and even if it expresses an opinion that is different from my own, I can see that it's something you became passionate about and I've grown to respect that.  I can appreciate it because I appreciate you and everything you did."  
  
"Then why?"  Stan's arched shoulders relaxed, his tone softening.    
   
"Because Even though we’ve removed every image of _him_ , he’s still there.  He’s still in every sheet of wallpaper and every floorboard.”  
  
Ford didn’t need to continue.  Stan already understood.  He understood how the memories kept him from sleeping in his own bedroom, how the dream demon tormented him in his own reflection in every mirror, or how, even the bathroom must have reminded him of cleaning and dressing his own wounds.  Stan hated to admit it but he knew Ford was right.  He needed to leave the Mystery Shack behind to find peace.  He answered in the only way he could manage.  “Oh.”  
  
"I know there must be painful memories for you there too.  Perhaps I could ask Fiddleford if you could join us?"  
  
Stan considered it for a minute.  He'd always wondered what it would be like to live in a mansion like that.  It certainly had ample space for him and even Dipper and Mabel when they visited and it sure would have impressed their father.  But he wasn't trying to impress him, he was trying to be happy for himself.  It was true that sometimes he'd felt the weight of unpleasant memories in the shack, that sometimes his bedroom reminded him of the first few years of crushing grief and guilt and the endless uncertainty, that the TV room reminded him of lonely nights, and the snack machine in the gift shop reminded him of countless hours of frustration spent in the basement, toiling away at a task which...    
  
Which he eventually succeeded at.  Even if Ford couldn't thank him at the time, he'd still succeeded.  Even if Ford had never thanked him, he'd done exactly what he set out to do and built so much more along the way.  Over the past few years, the place had taken on a new meaning to him.  Every sheet of peeling wallpaper and every creaking step held layers of fond memories and the success of opening and running his own business.  Even the basement had become a triumphant success when Ford said he was proud of what Stan had accomplished, when he said that Stan had given him a family again.    
  
"Hmm," Stan hummed with a faint smile, "Thanks but no thanks.  I think I'd like to stay in the shack.  But..  You'll still visit, right?"  
  
"Of course.  And you will too, right?"  
  
"That place got a swimming pool?" Stan asked with a light and honest chuckle.    
  
"I imagine so," Ford answered with an equally honest laugh.    
  
"Then save me a chair."    
  
"I will.  That is, if Fiddleford will still..." his smile drooped, "I wouldn't blame him if he didn't want to give me another chance."  
  
"You're lucky I'm the forgivin' type," Fiddleford interrupted, playfully chiding Ford.    
  
"Fiddleford, you came back," Ford's cheeks lifted with a sloppy smile as Dipper and Mabel led Fiddleford into the window's light.      
  
"Well, I mighta' gotten a little ahead'a myself with mentionin' you movin' in so quick.  'Sides, your family here," Fiddleford said with a nod to Dipper and Mabel, "made a purdy convincin' argument for ya.  Said they knew somethin had ta be wrong fer ya ta say ya just wanted ta' stay friends.  So..."  He lowered his hat from his head, his hands fidgeting with the brim.  "You wanna tell me what it is?"  
  
Stan eased himself out of his chair and cupped his hands around the younger twins' shoulders, ushering them out of the room, "Let's give them a little more time to figure things out," he whispered to them.     
  
Dipper nodded and followed Stan's lead.  Mabel leaned back to smile to Ford and gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up accompanied by a wink.     
  
After hearing his door click shut, Ford answered, "Well, perhaps I did overreact a little to some worries and a bit of, er, I suppose it was separation guilt.  It seems I still have a lot of things to work through."  
   
"Heh, yeah.  We both got a lotta issues don't we?" Fiddleford laughed awkwardly, tugging his hat back onto his head.      
  
"Yeah.  But, you know, I think I'd like to try to work on them together, if that's alright with you," Ford said with a fond smile, offering his hand to Fiddleford.    
  
"I'd like that too," he answered, his fingers intertwining with Ford's.   


	16. Reality and the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford proposes a permanent solution to their shape shifter issue. Ford, Fiddleford, Stan, Dipper, and Mabel make plans for their futures. 
> 
> Spoiler illustrations (click after reading if you don't want spoilers!) are [here](http://mayakaed.deviantart.com/art/Comfort-and-Sleep-633595557?ga_submit_new=10%253A1473893670) and [here](http://mayakaed.deviantart.com/art/Stargazing-634166290?ga_submit_new=10%253A1473893825)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read along, to everyone whose lovely comments and kudos have kept me going, and to anyone who has just joined in! I appreciate you reading this and hope you've enjoyed it. It's been quite an experience for me with a lot of content even I didn't see coming. (The mutt-rooms were a surprise...)  
> There's an afterward-ish sort of thing full of personal rambling [here](http://skillfulstudio.tumblr.com/post/150420185203/maybe-its-not-too-late-afterward-ish-thing-that) if anyone is interested. Feel free to skip. There's nothing important to the fic included.
> 
> (See the tumblr post [here ](http://skillfulstudio.tumblr.com/post/150420284613/and-the-final-chapter-for-maybe-its-not-too-late)for full list of thank you's)
> 
> As always thanks to usually-confused.tumblr.com and minimysterytwins.tumblr.com for looking over things for me!

Stan leaned back in his chair, golden lamplight and flickers from the TV playing across a pile of khaki fabric pooled in his lap as he stitched over a light brown patch ironed onto it.  He chuckled to himself as the whoosh of the shower overhead faded and Dipper's off-key caterwaul, mingling with an upbeat Babba song, filtered down from the ceiling in its place.  Mabel had already showered and was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him, her knitting needles clicking every so often as she scrolled through instructions on her phone.  She pursed her lips and growled to herself before tearing three rows of cream colored stitches out and using a bright pink lifeline to resume her work.  Stan internally mimicked her growl, annoyed, at first, that he knew what things like a lifelines, stitch markers, and Babba were.  Not even a second later, a smile shooed his annoyance away, replacing it with pure amusement.        
  
" _See_ ," the voice in his head which, this time, sounded suspiciously like Ford's, said, "Y _ou are worth the world to them.  You know these things because you're the one who went out to pick up cable stitch needles when Mabel mentioned her project would be easier if she had some.  You know because you were the one who bought that album for Dipper when he tried to pretend he wasn't excited about its release.  And even if you hadn't done those things, they love you for everything you are._ _"  
_  
For as many times as Ford had said similar things over the past year and a half, Stan still had trouble believing that last line, but for once, it didn't drag him to the depths of denial.   _But I'm still-  
  
No.  Breathe.    
  
I'm still not enough.  He's going to leave...       
_  
His arms crossed over his chest as he wondered what was going on back at the hospital.  What were Ford and Fiddleford discussing?  Would they attempt a relationship?  Would Ford really move out?  Would they ever sail together again?  Was it even safe for him to sail again after everything he had been through?  Was it fair to ask him if he wanted to?  What if something triggered him again?  What if his current injuries were worse than they thought?  What if he felt aftereffects from-?  He couldn't even stand to think of what Bill had done to his brother or of what he hadn't been able to speak of yet.  
  
He tried the breathing exercises, attempting to sever the poisonous thread of thoughts spinning a web in his mind but could not stop wondering what would become of his and Ford's futures.  He didn't mind the idea of moving back into the Mystery Shack permanently but he certainly would miss sailing if they decided to stay ashore.  Even if Ford moved out, at least they'd still live close enough to visit anytime.  At least he'd get to spend more time with Soos, Melody, and Wendy, and Dipper and Mabel could visit on any school holiday if they wanted.    
  
He tried piling one positive thought on top of another yet it couldn't mask what he knew he wanted.  He still wanted to sail.  It truly had been the adventure of a lifetime and he craved more.  He'd seen amazing sights, visited majestic locations, and even had a few great nights with people he'd met along the way.  To be honest, he'd hoped to revisit some them again.  He briefly debated going alone but it was difficult enough to manage the Stan 'O War with Ford and himself.  He even wondered if someone else might join him but the idea simply felt wrong.    
  
His thoughts dissipated at the sound of Dipper’s cheerful voice but he didn't catch what he'd said.  He looked up to find him silhouetted against the golden light spilling through the hallway door.    
  
"I'm ready whenever you guys are," he repeated.  
  
"Do you think we've given them enough time now?" Mabel asked, her knitting needles still clicking together.    
  
"Probably," Stan groaned as he lifted himself from the familiar dent of crushed stuffing in his cushion and set the mound of fabric on the dinosaur skull beside him.  "I'll get my coat and keys and we'll head back."  
  
Within twenty minutes the family found themselves stepping off of the elevator and onto the hospital's third floor.  Stan led the way, waving again to the nurses, one of whom seemed to have an increasingly difficult time keeping things in his hands every time Stan greeted him.  This particular time, it was his pen that slipped through his fingers, clattered against the terrazzo, and rolled down he hall.  He ran ahead of the Pines, chasing it halfway to the stairwell door at the hall's far end.    
  
Stan chuckled to himself at the sight as he and the younger twins arrived at room 325, but his smile drooped when they found the door closed.   _Oh no...  What did he do this time?  
_  
"Is he alright in there?" Stan asked the flustered nurse as he tried to creep back to the nurses' station undetected.  
  
"He was awake not too long ago when I went in to check his vitals.  Maybe he decided to take a nap," the nurse rambled in a near stutter and slipped away as Stan tapped his knuckles against the door.    
  
When no answer came, he turned the knob as soundlessly as he could and eased the door open.  He gestured to Dipper and Mabel to wait a minute and tip-toed inside.  The blinds had been closed and the lights turned off.  He held his hands ahead of himself, unsure of his footing as his eyes adjusted to the dimness.   _Aw Ford,_ he thought, dread welling up in his gut.   _What happened?_  He peeked around the room-dividing curtain and squinted at the stripes of light filtering through the blinds and over the bed.    
  
Dipper, and Mabel craned their necks, trying to look around the door frame only to duck back into the hall as Stan scurried out of the room, his pony tail patting against his back.    
  
"Uh, yeah, you're not gonna want to go in there," he said with a grimace, pulling the door shut behind him.  
  
"What?  Why not?" Mabel asked, shoving the door open and rushing past Stan in a blind panic, "What's wrong?!"  Her shoes tapped against the faux wood floor as she ran past the curtain.    
  
Dipper peeked through the half-open door and winced as she let out a somehow nearly silent but equally ear-shattering squeal.  "Mabel?!  What is it?!"  Worry rose in his throat as he sprinted into the room, nearly tripping over his own sneakers.    
  
"Oh my gosh, Dipper, look!" she whispered, tugging him into her arms and pointing at the bed.      
    
Ford slept on his side, his green blanket covering him as usual, but this time, tucked under his arm was Fiddleford, snoring in a light whistle, his hat tipped off of his head and his coat partly gathered beneath him and partly draped over the lowered rail at the bed's side.       
  
"Oh," Dipper said, edging away, a mortified glow rising in his cheeks, "Let's...  Uh, let them have some privacy."  He backed out of the room and found Stan leaning against the wall beside the door, his arms crossed over his chest.    
  
“I tried to warn ya, kid.  Yeesh.  I mean.  I’m happy for them and all but that is something I’m never going to get used to seeing.  My nerdy brother with…  anyone at all really, let alone that guy…” he said with a snort.    
  
“Grunkle Stan, I thought you said you were getting along better with Fiddleford…” Dipper wondered aloud.    
  
“Yeah that doesn’t mean I’m gonna be all giddiness and rainbows right away like Mabel in there.  It’s gonna take some time,” Stan explained with a shrug.    
  
“I suppose.”  Dipper wondered if he was just being paranoid or if something seemed off about Stan.  He decided not to press the matter and, instead, peeked through the door again to find Mabel still staring and smiling at the scene within.  He rolled his eyes and stepped in to collect her and give his great uncle and Fiddleford more time without spectators.      
  
Before he could say anything, Mabel shook him by his shoulder and squeaked, “Dipper we did it!  Look how happy they are!”    
  
He squinted, trying to see through the dim light.  His feet shuffled forward, a smile welling up inside him as he saw his great uncle’s face relaxed and content, his uninjured hand clutched gently between both of Fiddleford's.  He found himself fighting the urge to mimic Mabel's reaction and instead, turned to her and spoke his originally intended point, “Should we leave them alone to rest?”    
  
Mabel gave a series of overzealous nods.    
  
“Dipper?  Mabel?”  Ford muttered, his eyes opening sluggishly.    
  
“Oh yeah, sorry we were just going to leave so you could sleep more,” Dipper whispered, tugging at Mabel's arm.  
  
“Aw naw, Y'all can stay,” Fiddleford said with a yawn.  He rolled off of the bed, careful not to jar Ford's wounds, and helped him to sit up.    
  
“Where’s Stanley?” Ford asked, adjusting his glasses and glowering at their smudged state.    
  
“I’m here,” Stan answered, creeping into the room.  As he peered around the blue curtain, he could see Ford sitting up, his blanket-covered legs hanging over the side of the bed.  Fiddleford sat on the bed beside him, cradling his splinted hand in both of his.   “ _At least they’re not getting all cuddly anymore,_ ” he thought with an internal grunt.  Rubbing the back of his head he pried, “So uh…  This is definitely a thing then?  you two are…?”  
  
“We’re uh,” Ford began with a light laugh, “Well…  We know we're going to have a lot to figure out.”  
  
“Yes indeedy-doo,” Fiddleford affirmed with an exaggerated nod.  He reached for his hat, twirled it and placed it over his nearly hairless head.    
  
“But we decided we want to try."    
  
"Well, good for you two then," Stan said in a mostly-honest, cheerful lilt.  Half of him truly was happy for them but the other half deflated, dragging him down and leaving him feeling hollow.  
  
"But you know," Ford added, as if he could see Stan's thoughts teetering on the edge of a hopeless abyss, "It doesn't mean I'm running away from our problems.  I meant it when I said I want us to be like we were when we were kids again.  I want to work on things."  
  
"Me too," Stan replied, the stiffness of his cheerful mask easing up. "So, if you want to work on things, does that mean you're going to contact that guy who specializes in PT-  whatever it is that's got you having flashbacks?"    
  
Ford hesitated, considering the concerned expressions on the younger twins' faces and answered, "Yes.  I will."  
  
_I can't lose you again._  
  
The words looped in Stan's mind as he ran through thoughts of sailing or not, of possibly being alone again, of everything he'd recently learned and things he still didn't know.  
  
_He couldn't pull the trigger.  When the shape shifter took my form, he couldn't hurt it._  
  
"Ford," Stan began, fairly sure he didn’t want to so much as wave at the topic from a distance, but the words flowed out anyway, "You were the one who had to erase my mind.  I always avoided thinking too much about it and maybe even convinced myself that I wasn't important enough for it to bother you but when that walking nightmare turned into me, you...  You froze up."  
  
"Pulling that trigger was the single worst moment of my life," Ford said, his voice solemn and his gaze fixed on the ground.  His unbound fingers squeezed Fiddleford's hand as he continued.  "I thought I was losing you forever, that I was taking you away from Dipper and Mabel and Soos and everyone who cared for you, that everything I did, the mistakes _I_ made, were killing _you_ and I was the one physically pulling the trigger."  He looked to Dipper and Mabel who each sat perched on the edge of a reclining chair, their eyes watery but fixed on him.  "And I thought I was losing you two as well," he continued, "I wouldn't have blamed you if you couldn't forgive me for that."  
  
"You need to talk to that guy about that," Stan said, plowing through all other thoughts, seeing only his brother's horrified expression when he faced the shape shifter in the all too similar scenario.  "I don't want to end up being a trigger for you.  Bad enough that you're triggered because of that demon, because of being  _tortured!_ And...  And I was so reluctant to help," Stan pulled over a chair and fell into it, cradling his head in his palms.    
  
"Stanley,"  Ford reached out, his hand ruffling Stan's hair as he spoke, "The fact that you helped me at all was more than enough.  It wasn't up to you.  It wasn't your job to help me.  But you did.  More than once.  All of you did."  
  
Stan looked up with a sigh so heavy it shook his shoulders.  In a raspy near-whisper he said, "But I'm the one who pushed you into the portal in the first place.  I'm the reason that whatever happened to you there happened."  
  
"Well," Ford began with a lift of his lips, "You could say that thanks to you, I'm the first human in this dimension to have seen, explored, and lived in other dimensions.  Maybe no one will ever believe that what I saw was real but it certainly would make for an interesting fantasy series.  Perhaps we could write both of our stories when we set sail again."  
  
"Mmm..."  Stan nodded blankly, watching his feet tap against the floor.  It took a moment but when Ford's words sank in, his head snapped up.  His eyes widened as he asked, "Wait.  What?  What did you just say-?"  
  
"That is if you still want to," Ford added, "I may be assuming too much in thinking that's what you meant when you said earlier that you knew what you wanted."  
  
"No.  No!  That's exactly it.  But can you still sail?  Is it safe for you?  Do you even want to?  I don't want you to feel like you have to 'cause 'a me or nothin'," Stan rambled.    
  
"Are you kidding?  As long as I'm able, I wouldn't give up the adventure of a lifetime with you.  One of the doctors stopped by shortly after you, Dipper, and Mabel left and I asked if I'd be able to sail again.  She didn't see a problem with it.  She advised that as long as I follow through with physical therapy and stay on the medications they've prescribed, I should be able to as early as mid-spring."  
  
"Really?!  But what about you two trying a relationship and all?" Stan asked, his finger pointing between Ford and Fiddleford  
  
"We talked 'bout it," Fiddleford said, patting Ford's hand, "And there ain't no way Imma set one toe on some hunk 'a wood in the center of an ocean... 'Sides, I don't wanna intrude on yer adventures."  
  
"Hey," Stan said with an indignant huff, "The Stan 'O War ain't no hunk of wood!  It's a fine ship!"  
  
Ford laughed and explained, "Fidd's and I decided we can video chat like you and I do with Dipper and Mabel."  
  
The younger twins nodded with wide smiles.  Dipper's "Yes that's the perfect solution!" mingled with Mabel's "It'll work out great!"  
  
"But!" Mabel continued, an enthusiastic inflection to her voice, "You gotta promise to make the next trip a short one so you'll be back by summer!"  
  
"Mabel?"  Ford and Stan asked simultaneously, each raising their right brow quizzically.  
  
"We talked to mom and dad a few days ago," Dipper said with joyfully lifted cheeks, "And when we called them this morning-"  
  
"They agreed to let us come back again over the summer!"  Mabel blurted out, her feet thumping against her chair.    
  
"And I'm sure we can talk them into letting us sail with you for a while too," Dipper added.  
  
"Really?"  The older twins asked, their gruff voices blending together.    
  
Stan bounced out of his chair and lifted them both into a breath-stifling hug.  He reached out and with his and Fiddleford's combined efforts, helped Ford to stand and join in, their arms wrapped gently around him, his blanket pooled around their feet.  Fiddleford grinned at the sight but didn't expect the family to look to him with outstretched arms.  
  
"What are you doing?" Mabel asked, "Get over here!"  
  
"Yeah," Dipper added, "You're family too."  
  
"I am?"  He asked as they pulled him into the huddle, Ford's arm drawing him to his side.    
  
"Yeah!  After all of our adventures together, and after taking a bullet for us during the memory gun incident," Dipper added, "You're one of us now."  
  
"One of us.  One of us," Mabel chanted.  Dipper joined in, goading Stan and Ford to follow.    
  
Their chant faded into laughter which dissipated into contented sighs.  Stan helped Ford back up onto his bed, his heart clenching as he noticed discolored scars crisscrossing his bare legs as they dangled over the bed's edge. _He'll tell you when he's ready,_ he thought to himself, quieting the thoughts as Fiddleford picked up Ford's blanket and handed it to him.  
  
Ford bit his bottom lip, knowing that the expression on Stan's face was asking him things he wasn't ready to answer.  He draped the blanket over his legs, feeling guilty that he hoped the subject could be wordlessly dropped.  Thankfully, Mabel reached up to open the blinds, letting the afternoon sun flood in.  The unanimous groan accompanied by blinking and squinting among her family members cut through the thickening tension.  Stan and the younger twins settled back into their chairs, smiles still brightening Dipper and Mabel's faces but Stan's internal turmoil spilling out in the form of a crooked frown.  Fiddleford sat on the bed's edge beside Ford, wrapping his hands cautiously around Ford's splinted hand.  
  
With a deep breath, Stan successfully reset the course of his thoughts and said with a mostly genuine lift of his lips, "You know, if you two are a thing now, I think you're gonna need some adult supervision."  
  
Ford returned Stan's smile, relief washing over him.  He replied with an airy chuckle, "Do you mean like a chaperone?  Because I assure you..."  
  
"No no.  Actually, I figure you guys probably don't even fancy the idea of kissing," he pointed at them, "See! You're both blushing.  No.  You need a responsible adult to stop you from getting carried away with stupid projects."  
  
"OK, Stan," Ford said with a wry grin, "How about you?"  
  
"Oh cripes no.  I said a 'responsible' adult.  You're rich, right you old kook?" He asked with a nod to Fiddleford, "Well, you need to hire a nanny or something to babysit you two so you don't kick-start another apocalypse."  
  
"Oh..." Fiddleford answered with a laugh, "Well I promise ta stop Ford from summoning any more'a them geometrical demons."  
  
"And I promise to stop Fidds from building any more giant death-bots," Ford added, patting Fiddleford's hand.    
  
****  
  
January 2014  
  
The snow let up for the last day of winter break, leaving a blanket of crisp snow coating the trees against a sky of pristine blue.  Dipper and Mabel were not looking forward to boarding the bus later that day, yet excitement drowned their dread with every step forward.  They were on their way into the hospital to bring their Grunkle Ford home.    
  
When he'd worried that celebrating New Year's Eve in his room, watching the crowds in Times Square through the tiny television mounted by his bed, was less than ideal, Dipper and Mabel assured him that it was a memory they'd cherish for years to come, that they'd look back on it and say, "remember that year when," and simply be happy he'd survived to see the new year.  He'd apologized numerous times to them all for causing them to spend the majority of their break in a hospital rather than out rolling in the snow and ice skating with their friends, and every time they replied that it was their choice to be there, that it didn't matter if they were at an amusement park or sitting in a hospital room as long as they were all alive and together.  
  
Even so, they knew he'd grown weary of the confined quarters and constant but necessary check-ups from the medical staff.  With thoughts of his freedom in their minds, Dipper and Mabel nearly skipped through the hospital's sliding doors ahead of Stan.    
  
Mabel clutched a glitter and crayon coated paper grocery bag in both hands.  Stan held a plain one with its top folded over and stapled closed at his side.  He strode forward, his chest puffed out partly in pure joy and partly to show off the new fisherman's sweater Mabel had finished for him last night.    
  
The nurses complimented him on it as they greeted them, eliciting wide smiles from Mabel and proud ones from Dipper and Stan.  The typically flustered nurse even managed to say it looked nice on him without stumbling over his words or dropping anything.  (Though, Mabel suspected that had more to do with the conversation Stan had with him the day before than his new sweater.  She was sure she saw Stan pocket a neon green post it note with a phone number on it when she glanced into the hall with absolutely no intent of spying.)  He even managed to tell them in a confident cadence that he'd have Ford's discharge papers ready shortly.    
  
The Pines arrived at room 325 to find Ford's door open.  Despite the sunlight illuminating the curtained off corner, Stan knocked, just in case he was resting again.  Fiddleford poked his head out from behind the curtain and said, "Come on in."  
  
Dipper led the way, happy to see his great uncle sitting in up in his bed, working on another digital drawing, even if his chin was far scruffier than he'd ever seen it and his hair was tousled and draped over his ears.  "So, you ready to get out of here, Grunkle Ford?" he asked.  
  
"Very much," he answered, looking up to wave to his family with his bandaged hand, finally free from its splints.  He saved his drawing and tried to close the program before Stan could see his work in progress but he leaned over while the laptop struggled to save the file.    
  
"Whatcha' drawing now, Fo-" Stan stopped mid-word at the sight of Ford's drawing.  It was still a rough sketch but he could tell it was supposed to be an image of himself looking exaggeratedly heroic as he tied knots in a representation of the crate he and Fiddleford had created to trap the shape shifter.  
  
"Well, I was hoping to surprise you when it's finished," Ford grunted.  
  
"I'm plenty surprised now," Stan replied.  "It's...  I..."  
  
"Aw he's speechless," Mabel crooned.  
  
"No it's just...  It's still better than anything I ever drew," he huffed, crossing his arms and turning away, the bag still clutched under his hand.  "Thanks..." he added almost soundlessly.       
  
"It does bring up a good point," Dipper said, "What are you going to do about the shape shifter?  It's frozen for now but it might thaw by summer."  
  
"I think I have a perfect solution for experiment 210," Ford said with a sly smile, raising inquisitive looks from his family.  
  
"Here you go!" The nurse interrupted, waving a stapled stack of papers. "You're all set to leave whenever you're ready.  Just let us know," he handed the packet to Stan with a smile and stepped aside to let a doctor speak to them.  She left instructions for plenty of rest and limited movement as well as advice to continue physical therapy and follow up with an assortment of specialists due to Ford's complete lack of previous medical care, "at least in our dimension," she added with a mildly incredulous laugh.    
  
Moments after she excused herself, Stan tugged at the folded over top of the paper bag he'd toted along.  The staples tore out as he said, "Well, guess you'll need some clothes to change into."  He tipped the bag upside down above his brother's head, spilling folds of khaki over him.  
  
With a chuckle, Ford swam out of the nearly threadbare fabric.  His chuckle faded into silence as he noticed the familiar tears at the garment's hem.  He lifted and turned it, the back facing him.  His lips parted in a silent gasp.  He lowered it, draping it over one hand as dampness welled in the corners of his eyes.  His fingertips traced a quilt-like pattern of patches in varied shades of tan and brown which covered the back of his favorite khaki coat.     
  
"It ain't pretty or nothin', but it might be wearable at least."  Stan crossed his arms, waving one hand.   
  
Ford couldn't form words.  His lower lip moved as he tried but no sound emerged.    
  
"If ya don't like it, just say so.  It's fine!  I get it.  I probably just messed it up," Stan said tugging the coat from his lap.  
  
Ford reached out and pulled it back.  He wrapped his arms around it, hugging it to his chest, his head lowered and eyes closed.    
  
Fiddleford elbowed Stan, "just give him a minute," he whispered.  
  
_Oh.  Right._  Stan remembered.      
  
Ford breathed in and out, rearranging and organizing his thoughts until the right words surfaced.  He opened his eyes, smiled, and said, "It's perfect.  It's better than ever."  His smile widened as he ran his fingers over the haphazard stitches reinforcing the iron on patches.  "How did you manage this?  I thought it would be destroyed."  
  
"Well Dipper here," Stan patted Dipper's shoulder, "Looked up how to get it clean and took care of that.  Then Fiddleford told us about this stuff called "fusible netting" or something-?"  
  
"Fusible web," Fiddleford filled in, "I used it ta' patch ma' pants fer years."  
  
"Right. That.  Anyway he helped us figure out how it works and we used it to iron a bunch of fabric together over the holes.  Then I sewed over it all just to be sure it'd stay."  
  
"It's brilliant...  Magnificent.  Thank you."  
  
Stan let out a wall shaking chuckle, "Really?  I spend thirty years reading ner-" he stumbled on his words.  It was going to take him a while to stop calling his brother and the things he loved nerdy.  "physics books and learning how to break your codes in order to bring you back home and this is what gets me an instant thank you?  If I'd known that, I would have just fixed that old shirt of yours in the closet and dropped it in the bottomless pit and hoped it got to you or something."  
  
"Stanley..." Ford's grin faded into worry, his shoulders sagging.  
  
"I'm kidding.  I get it.  Or well...  I'm working on it.  I guess I mostly understand now why you couldn't thank me then.  That whole turning your passions into a mockery thing," he said with an underlying growl to his voice, fighting against the self-demeaning thoughts that tugged at his consciousness, as if kicking his feet in an attempt to free himself from drowning in an undertow.  
  
Ford's expression lightened, "Well, you know I don't think of it that way anymore, right?  You're my brother and I love you but, we're just very different people and that's okay as long as we can respect each other's passions."  
  
With those words Stan felt as if he'd broken the surface and drawn in a breath of fresh air.  He blinked, unsure if he'd actually heard them right and stuttered, "You...  You just said..."  
  
"What?  Oh no.  I didn't say a thing!  Ignore that," Ford joked as Stan's arm wrapped around his neck, squishing his cheek against his shoulder.    
  
"Aw Poindex- I mean...  Ford!  I love ya too."  
  
Fiddleford and Dipper stuck their fingers in their ears as Mabel let out a delighted squeal.      
  
"Stanley," Ford said as his brother released him, allowing him to take in a breath again, "You don't have to stop calling me that.  I get that it's just a nickname..."  
  
"Naw, it's alright for you to not like people callin' ya things that make you feel like everyone's makin' fun of you and the people who love you should show you that they do by respecting that or something," Stan said with a shrug, "I mean...  You were going to give up a chance to have a relationship and continue living in a place that triggers your PTSD for me.  For a year and a half you acted like a totally different person for me, never fighting back and just going along with whatever I wanted," with a slowly released breath he added, "You shouldn't have to change so much of yourself to feel like you deserve to be loved.  If you're willing to make accommodations for me, then I gotta be willing to make some for you."      
  
"Does that mean you might join in on some Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons with us?" Ford asked, looking to Fiddleford and Dipper.  
  
"Oh no!  I've seen enough of that game!" Stan said, backing away with his hands raised.    
  
"What if I agree to a weekend in Vegas and a bit of card counting to fund out next trip?"    
  
Stan snorted, "Really?"  
  
"Well, that and I'd rather not bankrupt Fiddleford with these hospital and therapy bills," Ford added with a nod to Fiddleford.  
  
"Alright, deal!  But you gotta promise to throw enough games that they don't catch on this time," Stan tapped his fist against Ford's shoulder.    
  
Once the laughter faded and left a clearing in the conversation, Mabel lifted her glitter and crayon encrusted bag up and said, "Grunkle Ford, this is for you.  Open it open it open it!"    
  
Ford reached inside the bag, his fingers sinking into something fluffy and plush.  It unfolded as he lifted it out, the bag tipping over onto the bed beside him.  He held up the cream colored knit, smiling in awe of the intricate cable stitches adorning the sweater his grand-niece had crafted for him.    
  
"Is...  is it alright?"  Mabel asked, her hands clutched behind her back as she gave him a minute to answer.  
  
"Mabel...  It's exquisite!  Really it's...  the detail!  This must have taken you countless hours," he replied, his fingers tracing the interlacing pattern.    
  
"I'm sorry it took so long for me to make you one.  I guess I got so hung up on wanting it to be perfect that I didn't realize it looked like I was making one for everyone except you.  And Dipper, but he's allergic to everything so I just draw stuff for him," she elbowed Dipper playfully, eliciting an appreciative smile from him.      
  
"It is perfect.  But, why did you feel so pressured?"  
  
"Because your art is so good I thought that anything I made would just be... pathetic."    
  
"Oh, Mabel, anything you make is perfect because you cared enough to make it.  But I think I understand how you feel and I want you to know that I think this is incredibly impressive," he said, holding out his arm to her.  She hopped up on the bed beside him, leaning into his hug.  He looked to Stan, Fiddleford, and Dipper, lifting his bandaged hand to invite them in as well, "And so was your work on my coat.  It's all perfect."    
  
****  
  
April 2014  
  
Ford looked up to the sky, the setting sun casting the clouds in shades of orange and yellow.  He rubbed the back of his hand, still unaccustomed to the numb patches left behind from the deepest of his wounds.  Every so often, his back ached, but he'd completed the full course of physical therapy and was his usual self again, calculating equations and prodding at projects, this time with Fiddleford at his side once more.  Even better, Stan had joined them for this particular patch-up.    
  
They'd toiled and tinkered for a week solid, working late into the nights and eating nothing but pancakes and burgers from Greasy's Diner, but finally, everything was ready to go.  With Fiddleford's engineering, Ford's planning, and Stan's mechanical skills, they'd managed to repair the alien prison droid Dipper had defeated before Weirdmageddon.  With the combined effort of the gnomes and what Fiddleford called the "climb-o-tron-cargo-bot", they had managed to lift the amber-encased shape shifter out of the winding caverns and up to the surface.  They'd spent the day transferring the crate and still mostly solidified amber into the droid and now all that was left was to hope it would launch without a hitch and find its way home.  
  
Fiddleford  flopped onto the ground between the roots of a massive redwood with an "oof".  He leaned back against it and looked to the yellowing sunset, wrapping his reconstructed red and orange scarf around his neck and thinking of the happier memories attached to it.  Mabel hadn't been thrilled that he'd had to take it apart but she understood and told him she could fix it if he gathered up the yarn for her.  
  
In the last days of winter, he'd suggested doing just that.  Besides, it was a good excuse to revisit his fungal friends.  Ford had gladly helped him roll the yarn trail into a massive ball as they strolled through the tunnels, leaving a new trail of painted neon green dashes behind.  Fiddleford smiled at the memory of Ford's expression when they reached the tail end of the yarn.  He'd looked up in awe at the cascade of glowing mushrooms clinging to the wall beyond a screen of steam rising from the hot springs and the drip of amber from the hole punched into the cavern's ceiling.  He'd jumped as the mushrooms' caps moved in a wave up the wall.  Fiddleford's smile stretched as remembered watching Ford's glasses slip down, his mouth open into a toothy grin, and pure joy glint in his eyes.  His reaction was everything he'd hoped for and his current expression nearly mirrored that moment.    
  
"Well, I think we did it," Ford said, hands on his hips, chest puffed out in pride for their joint project.    
  
"Yeah I gotta say this was a pretty good idea you had, Ford," Stan said, dusting off his hands.     
  
"Yes indeedily-doo.  Them aliens brought that thing here, they can have it back!" Fiddleford said with a slap to his knee.    
  
"I'm just glad no one ever found that prison pod out here-"    
  
A buzzing sound from Fiddleford's laptop cut off Ford's sentence.   Fiddleford leaned forward and poked a few buttons.  The buzz fell silent and a cheerful voice replaced it.  
  
"Hi!  Are we in time to see?!" Mabel asked.    
  
Ford bent beside Fiddleford to answer his grand-niece.  "Yes!  You're just in time!  Say hi to Stan!"    
  
He turned the laptop to his brother who leaned against the trunk of a thin tree.  He waved and said, "Hey goofballs, how's it going?"  
  
"Great!  Though school is getting suuuuper boring!"  Mabel answered.       
  
"Speak for yourself, I'm actually enjoying trigonometry!"  Dipper interrupted.   
  
Ford's pocket beeped, silencing the conversation for a moment before Mabel jumped up and down excitedly, nearly knocking Dipper off of his chair.    
  
"Oh oh!  Is it time?!"  
  
"Yes," Ford said looking at the timer on his phone.    
  
"Ok we're tuned in!"  Dipper said, looking to the side,  "Oh I can see it!  You might have to tip the camera up a little more though."  
  
Ford re-positioned the camera hooked up to Fiddleford's laptop so it pointed to a clearing in the trees and the horizon beyond.  "Better?" he asked.  
  
"Yes, perfect!"  Mabel answered.    
  
The ground rumbled and the roar of an engine grew louder and louder.  Smoke puffed up in the clearing and the nose of the alien prison pod emerged from the ditch.  A blast shook the trees, and it soared up into the sky leaving a trail of while smoke behind.  Ford followed it with the camera, pointing it up to the sky, avoiding the glare of the sun as best as he could.  
  
"Now there's a satisfying sight," Stan said, crossing his arms behind his head and watching it drift up and up, past the orange glow of the setting sun.    
  
"Yep.  I reckon that's the _second_ nicest thing I've ever seen," Fiddleford added.  
  
"Indeed.  It is rather a relief, isn't it?"  Ford said with a wide grin.    
  
Fiddleford's eyebrows flattened.  "Aren't ya gonna ask me what the first nicest thing is?"  
  
Ford peeled his eyes away from the camera and the sky, looking at him with a raised eyebrow, "Oh.  Um.  I'm not sure what that has to do with anything-"  
  
"Grunkle Ford!"  Mabel's voice interrupted him.    
  
"Wow, Grunkle Stan was right," Dipper mumbled, "You really don't know when someone's-"  
  
"Ugh.  He's gonna say it's you, ya' stupid genius."  Stan stood and took over at the camera, waving Ford away.  "Don't worry though, you old coot," he said, pointing to Fiddleford with a clicking sound, "that line never works for me either."      
  
Ford's cheeks reddened.  Fiddleford held out his arm, inviting him closer.  He shuffled over and leaned awkwardly against Fiddleford, the back of his head resting on the shoulder of his red and orange sweater vest.  His body stiffened as Fiddleford's arm crossed over his shoulder, his hand resting over his ribs.  He reached for it shakily, as if worried it might disappear if he touched it, worried it was just a dream again.  
_  
Is it real?  
_  
His fingers brushed against knobby joints and warm, weather-worn skin.  Their fingers intertwined.  He breathed deeply taking in every sensation his dreams lacked; the smell of machine oil and candy, the warmth and weight of the arms wrapped around him, and the rise and fall of breathing that was not his own.  His tension eased as his mind finally understood.  
  
_It's real.  It's really real..._  
  
Every muscle relaxed, warmth radiating through his limbs as he leaned back and watched the streak of smoke disappear into the sky.  
  
****  
     
May 2014  
  
It was well past midnight and Ford hadn't even changed out of his clothes yet.  Instead, he sat on the roof outside of his window, his green blanket wrapped over his shoulders, and stared at the moonlit glow of the distant cliffs.  The windows of McGucket Manor really did offer some of the best views in town and the one in his bedroom was no exception, especially when it was so easy to climb outside for the full panoramic view.  
  
Following suggestions from his therapist and the PTSD specialist, he'd partially moved in a week ago, though with as many nights as he'd accidentally stayed the entire night working on projects or falling asleep on the sofa, he may as well have been partially moved in several weeks ago.  Easing himself into the change and into a healthier relationship with Stan seemed to work out well for both of them so far.  Stan had begun to accept the reality of the successful portions of his life, that he'd created a family, a business, and a home of his own, though some nights, it was a good thing the manor was only a ten minute drive away, on both of their parts.  There were nights when Stan needed to talk like they had aboard the Stan 'O War and others when Ford simply needed to know Stan was safe.  At the same time, it proved useful more than once to have separate spaces when their discussions shifted to arguments, but for the most part, they were both making progress.  
  
As he stared out at the sparse sprinkling of clouds, watching them drift across twinkling stars, he remembered his first visit to the manor.  Fiddleford had discussed the idea of him moving in as he had shown him around.  Ford's jaw had nearly dropped in amazement when he saw the grand hall, once a lavish site for the snootiest of parties, or so he imagined, having never been invited himself, transformed into a workshop brimming with parts and scraps and unfinished projects.  The ballroom had become a computer lab, filled with relics and innovations.  He even spotted the supercomputers from his old basement lab, though they had been mostly disassembled.  Ford had laughed to himself, wondering what the Northwests would have thought if they saw the scattered drafting desks and workbenches, the stacks of blueprints, and the ink, mud, and oil smudged across their parlor carpet.  What would they say if they knew that their den had become a literal raccoon den?   _It doesn't matter_ , he'd thought.   _Fiddleford's happy here.  
_  
But Fiddleford hadn't finished yet.  He swung an intricately carved and jewel encrusted door open and led Ford down the stairs.  The wine cellar had been completely emptied and stood as an expansive blank slate.  "This one's all yours if ya' want it," he'd offered.    
  
Ford still had trouble trying to comprehend the scale of the lab space he'd gained but his mind nearly overloaded when he considered the fully stocked library Fiddleford had shown him moments later.  He'd ended the tour by bringing him up three stories in a glass elevator adorned in gold swirls, and showing him a red-carpeted hall of doors.  He pointed to one with a raccoon crudely pained on it and said, "This one's my room 'n that one at the end 'a the hall," he added, pointing to one with a "keep out" sign nailed to it, "is Tate's but the rest are open so ya' can pick whichever ya like."  
  
He'd chosen the room beside Fiddleford's, more than content with their decision to keep separate bedrooms.  Falling asleep together on the sofa was pure bliss but they both still appreciated their private spaces to accommodate their odd sleeping habits.  Although, part of the reason he was even awake at this hour was that he'd already had a lengthy sofa nap with Fiddleford.  
  
He'd spent the afternoon in the living room, leaning into the corner of the sofa in front of a crackling fire, reading an amusing book about how one might live on Mars.  Fiddleford had leaned against him, plucking a familiar tune on the replacement banjo he'd bought for him.  Moments later, he'd fallen asleep thinking of the tearful smile on Fiddleford's face when he'd shown him what had become of his broken banjo.  He'd tried to rescue it but when he was told it was beyond repair, Dipper and Mabel suggested mounting the parts in a shadowbox rather than throwing them away.  The massive art piece had been instantly hung above the fireplace, "so I can see it everyday," Fiddleford had said.  
  
Ford heard the click of a window unlocking behind him. He turned to find Fiddleford climbing through his own window, confused for a moment, as to why he emerged rear first, but as he turned, he spotted two thermoses in his hands, one patterned in red plaid, the other in blue.    
  
"Aren't ya' headin' out ta the coast in the mornin'?" He asked,  
  
"Yes," Ford answered with a knowing grin, "I know.  I should be sleeping."  
  
"Eh, I get it,"  Fiddleford said with a shrug, "You got room fer' one more up here?" he asked with an awkward lift of his mustache, a half smile somewhere below.    
  
He returned the smile, his eyes crinkling around the edges, "Yes, of course.  I hope I didn't wake you."  
  
"Naw, you know very well I have about as much luck as you do tryin'a sleep some nights,"  He chuckled, the nostalgia of their days sharing a dorm bubbling inside him.    
  
"Ah yes, I think we got all of eight hours between us for our entire college experience.  Sometimes I wish we could just tell our minds to take a break."  He knocked on the side of his head with a light metallic ping.     
  
"Yeah, sometimes the noise up there gets ta' be a little much," he agreed, handing the red thermos to Ford, "Hot chocolate?"  
  
"That sounds wonderful.  Thank you."  He cupped one hand around it and lifted his other arm, offering half of his blanket to Fiddleford.  
  
Fiddleford leaned against Ford's shoulder and said in a low whisper, "I'm gonna miss you."  
  
"Me too," Ford replied, his hand clasping Fiddleford's, "But we'll video chat.  And Stan and I won't be gone as long this time.  Just a few weeks and then we'll go pick up Dipper and Mabel and sail back."  
  
"I'mma need ta git better 'bout keepin' food around here, 'specially for anime Sundays."  
  
"Ha ha.  I'm not sure how I feel about 'anime' yet but I'm fairly certain I don't love it as much as you."  
  
"Well now, I wouldn't exact-a-maly say I love it..." Fiddleford paused, noticing Ford's hand tensing around his, a little sweatier than usual.  "Ford?" He turned to find his face reddening, visible even in the dim lamplight glowing through the window behind them.  He swore that if he had a free hand, he'd be facepalming hard.  "Oh," he said, his mind working out which words had been scrambled between Ford's mind and his mouth, "Oh sweet sassafras.  Were you tryin'a say...?"  
  
"I'm not very good at this," he muttered with a sigh, his head lowering in embarrassment.  He glanced back up as Fiddleford squeezed his hand.  
  
"That's alright.  It's one of the reasons I love you too."  
  
Ford squeezed his hand and smiled in return.  He looked up to the glistening sky and thanked every star he could see as well as some he couldn't, some that were in dimensions far away.  As they sat together, gazing into endless universes, he thought to himself, " _I wish someone would have told me when I was younger that being an adult isn’t some finite end to a childhood journey.  There is no one concrete standard to achieve by some set point in your life.  It’s simply another stage of the journey where you learn, grow, fail, make mistakes, and, hopefully, learn from them.  It’s a chance for you to define what makes you happy on your own unique journey.  Even if you grow old and feel that you’ve failed, you can still alter your course.  You can still look around and think, maybe it's not too late."_


End file.
